


Absent Companions

by Gryphonrhi



Series: Aidan-verse 1: Arrivals and Introductions [2]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Aidan-verse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-06
Updated: 2010-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 18:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An immortal friend of Connor's wanders through Seacouver, and this one may stay. About friendship, and differing points of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absent Companions

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Immortality, the Gathering, the Prize, Joe, Duncan, Methos, et al aren't mine and I'm only borrowing them with no expectation of reward or money. Aidan Logan and other characters unfamiliar from Highlander: the Series or the Movie are mine. Further notes can be found at the end.  
> Rated: PG-13 for no more violence and sexual innuendo than you'd find in an episode.  
> Last: This was my first story in fandom, and my first after eleven years of not writing. Be charitable, please; I improved. Really.

"I always heard you should never eat at a place called Joe's. I don't suppose you'd care to disprove that?"

Joe looked up to see an amused woman in her early twenties, with smiling grey eyes and dark brown hair that she had braided back at her temples. It fell forward over her shoulders until the ends curled around her waist, obscuring the design on the t-shirt. He grinned at her and waved at a stool.

"Well, if you don't mind slow service, sit down and we'll see what we can do. Joe Dawson, proprietor."

"Aidan Logan, starving traveler. You don't look like the hair is slowing you down."

Joe rolled his eyes up, knowing he wouldn't be able to see his own salt &amp; pepper hair, then looked back at her. "Nope, it's still there. However, there's only me and one prep worker in the kitchen. We don't officially open for another hour. Now, given that, what can I feed you that doesn't require a master chef?"

Aidan stared at him for a second, then started laughing, an easy chuckle that made Joe glad he'd taken her casual challenge. "What I could really use, and please don't say a word about fat grams, cholesterol, or sodium, is a really good reuben sandwich, lots of chips, and a pint or so of dark beer, glass of water on the side."

Joe's eyes widened in feigned shock, then he shook his head admiringly. "Yes, ma'am! Gotta love a woman who knows what she wants. I'll get you the beer now, if you'll be kind enough to show me some ID, and you can work on it while I work on your sandwich."

While she was reaching for her wallet, he paused, thinking about her accent and phrasing. "Would that be chips in the American slang or the British?"

"Damn, spotted again? Chips in the British vernacular, I believe you call them fries." She handed over the ID with a smile that made Joe think of the Mona Lisa and mysteries. He checked it absently, already sure she was legal from body language and a host of other subconscious clues.

Joe drew off some Killian's brown ale, waited for the head to subside, then topped it off and handed her the stein. "Water on the side, right? Lemon?"

"Please." She immediately drained off half the water, then took a long swallow of the beer. "That is wonderful. Thank you."

"My pleasure, Aidan. Have a seat, or feel free to feed the Wurlitzer, and I'll be back in a few."

Aidan watched him walk off with a rolling stride and a cane, one eyebrow lifted as she analyzed his walk. Then softly she cursed both herself for intruding and whatever late help hadn't arrived to assist him with set-up, in rolling Gaelic obscenities. She prowled behind the bar for a few seconds until she found the checklist for opening up. She glanced at it, nodded to herself, and got busy.

When Joe came out ten minutes later with her sandwich and fries, he stopped short, nearly dropping the plate. Aidan's jacket lay on the bar; her hair had been intricately coiled up and secured with a couple of pencils in a style that reminded Joe of Japanese screens. The now visible t-shirt read "Dead Can Dance" on the back, and she was quite cheerfully sweeping the bar out in time to Billy Joel playing on the jukebox. Somehow the choice of tunes suited her: "Only the Good Die Young".

"Aidan, that's not going to get you lunch free, you know. Now if you do windows...." Joe kept his tone cheerful as he set down the plate but he found himself wondering if she was humoring the cripple. She swiftly disabused him of that thought as she came back with the push-broom, looking for a dustpan.

"Joe, it most certainly won't get me a free lunch, but it did get me that lunch quickly. I ate up your time, so to speak, in cooking for me, and I'm a woman who pays my debts. So I started on your opening chores. Only fair, I assure you, since you're saving me from a hideous death by starvation!

"Although in my defense, I will note that the neon sign is on, and the door unlocked...." She trailed off thoughtfully, looking thoroughly content with her current lot. As Joe tried to decide what to say, he noticed the front of her shirt and started chuckling helplessly.

"What is it?" Aidan set down her beer as quickly as she had picked it up, hoping Joe wouldn't fall over before she could grab his arm.

"Only that your shirt describes how I feel so perfectly. 'Into the Labyrinth', all right! Are you sure you shouldn't wear a waistcoat and have a pocketwatch on a chain?"

"Ah, but you're not Alice, are you, to wonder which bottle is safe or to quibble over the sign on the cake. By all means, Joe, sit and talk for a minute. I'm headed to no particular destination and can certainly take the time to help with opening a bar in fair barter for intelligent conversation and such wonderful beer." He was spared from responding for another moment as she took a large bite of her sandwich; a blissful expression spread across her face.

In the background the jukebox kicked over to Benny Goodman playing "Sing, Sing, Sing", and Joe finally laughed and sat down. "What the hell, Tuesdays are always slow. But I can't sit long, I'm afraid; one of my cooks called in sick."

Aidan swallowed another bite of the reuben, washed the sauerkraut down with the ale, and lifted her glass in a toast to the music. "To Big Band: may it come back into style soon!" Throwing Joe a mischievous look, she said, "However, by all means, head back into the kitchen soon. I was minded to set up your bar for you, since I plan to be here for another hour, more like it will be two." She deliberately salted her fries and ate a couple, ignoring Joe's protests splendidly.

"Now wait a minute, you're going to do what?! Why are you here for the next couple hours? Not that I mind paying customers, of course...."

She resolutely placed one finger over his mouth, cutting off his tirade before it got to full momentum. "Joe, I just put three dollars into that glorious museum you're denigrating as a 'Wurlitzer' because all of my music is currently packed and it's driving me mad. Since I'm going to be here listening and dancing for at least an hour, it seems only reasonable I should clean as I go. I have been in a car for the last three days straight, twelve and fourteen hours a day, and I'm so tired of sitting I could kill something.

"You need help until your next person comes in, and I need to move! Why shouldn't we form a mutual aid society for the afternoon?" Aidan slowly removed her hand, head cocked sideways to watch for Joe's response, ready to keep arguing if it was needed. Joe shook his head as he conceded the battle of stubbornness, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Yes, ma'am, I never argue with good help, and I like your taste in music. What else is loaded? But if you set up, I take the sandwich and fries off your tab. Least I can do."

She beamed at him and replied, "Styx, Red Shoe Diaries, Rusted Root, The Honeydrippers, Jim Croce, The Blues Brothers, and Gods only know what else. I just kept seeing old favorites and punching them in. Oh, and lots of Billy Joel and Glen Miller. I always go a little mad with them. But it's a deal."

"Not bad, not bad at all. We'll get along fine. Now, why is all your music packed? Are you moving?" He drew himself a beer and sat down, watching her savor the reuben, washing it down alternately with the beer and the water.

"Hmm? Oh, the sandwich is wonderful, by the way. That myth is definitely shot. Yes, I'm moving, just haven't decided where. I like mountains and water, but I'm tired of the East Coast and in no mood for hot summers. The problem is that I'd best stop soon--I need to get unpacked and working sometime in the next few weeks." She started in on the fries with an intensity she hadn't shown the reuben, obviously as hungry as she had claimed.

"What exactly do you do?" Joe studied her intently, mentally placing her in various roles and unable to decide which vocation fit this energetic, articulate young woman.

"Translate, at the moment. Foreign literature to English for students, you know, the volumes with the original text on one side and the translation on the other? At the moment, I have a collection of Roman plays and poems to be translated and in my publisher's hands in five months, and no place to work. Maddening." Aidan chased the last salt off her plate with the last fry, killed her beer and set it down.

"So. Where do you keep the dustpan and I'll come ask you any other questions as I go down the list. Such as what the night-life in this city is like, where the cleaners are, how many silverwares you want rolled, you get the idea." She tilted her head, inquisitive and self-possessed as any cat, and with something of a cat's look--all high cheekbones and pointed chin.

"The dustpan, whiskbroom, mop and bucket are all in that closet, see me about the silverware when you finish that, and can you inventory and set up a bar?" Joe watched her secure her hair more firmly, and thought for a second that he saw a wink of metal at the nape of her neck. At that moment, all of his Watcher training kicked into full gear and he started to re-evaluate the young woman in front of him. Then the oak leaf pendant fell forward onto her t-shirt, sliding along its chain, and he cursed himself softly for jumping to conclusions. _Not everyone who walks into your bar is an immortal, Dawson! Even if some days it feels like it!_

"Joe? Is something wrong?" The light, easy smile had faded off her face, and that steady, grey gaze caught him and held him like a firm grip on his shoulder. "I only want to help, but if it's a nuisance, then say so and I'll be off."

"No, no nuisance at all, Aidan. I just... woolgathered for a second, I guess. Hell, yes, I'd appreciate the help. For that matter, there's a damn fine jazz combo coming in tonight, and I'll be doing a blues set around eleven or so, if you want to stick around or come back." Joe took care to resume his usual persona of affable bartender and watched the way her face relaxed back into that easy amusement.

"Then I'll just go back to work and yell if I need answers. Would it be all right if my jacket stays here on the bar?" Her shoulders relaxed downward so imperceptibly it took Joe a few seconds to realize she'd been tense.

"Sure. Oh, can you handle bar inventory? There's a laminated sheet under the register, you read it as you're facing the alcohol." He indicated the register with a wave of his hand, still watching her. Something seemed slightly out of place in her mannerisms, but Dawson couldn't decide where. The music segued from Benny Goodman to Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir" and Aidan's body relaxed completely.

"Ah, ask me a difficult question, next! You're giving me instructions, that probably takes all the fun out of it. However, I shall overcome this minor travail, and prepare for the eve nonetheless, o my master!" She swept him an elaborate, flourished bow and Joe couldn't help laughing.

Somehow all his suspicions seemed half mad. Aidan was a sensible, if flamboyant, young woman. She wouldn't be the first or the last mortal to carry a knife for protection against other mortals--if she was even carrying a knife! Why had he wondered if she was in the Game?

Later, working in the kitchen, listening to the steady stream of songs coming from the front (Aidan really had paid for a fair bit of music on the CD jukebox), Joe Dawson reexamined his suspicions. Normal mortals wandered into his bar all the time, but on at least three occasions he had suspected Aidan of being an immortal. That was one too many, so what was nagging him?

It couldn't be her ease with an older man; the last generation or so cultivated poise as assiduously as his had listened to rock and roll. The necklace around her throat shouldn't be it, although it had startled him. She struck him as a little too down to earth to be in with the 'new age' crowd, and she was most definitely not a punker. But someone had put careful, detailed craftsmanship into that oak leaf, and it was a decidedly uncommon ornament to wear--so why conceal it?

Then the pieces fell into place and the Watcher knew precisely why Aidan made him so uneasy. It was three things in combination: her lack of concern about moving herself and her livelihood across a continent, the casual ease with which she put off questions about her origins and schooling, and, most of all, the pea jacket lying on the bar. At no point had she allowed him between her and that coat, which was long enough to conceal a short sword, and she had done it as reflexively as Methos would have.

"Joe? Set-up is finished, and I suspect it's almost time to open for the other paying customers." Aidan stuck her head in the door and Joe saw, without surprise, that she was wearing the jacket again, although she still had his pencils in her hair.

"Half a sec, Aidan, while I get the onion off my hands and I'll be out." Joe pried himself out of the chair, grateful that one of the other cooks would be in within the hour. Standing and cooking all night would not be good for his stumps.

Somehow it didn't surprise him to come out and find that Aidan had done a fine job of setting the place to rights, with only a couple minor bobbles behind the bar. He opened a couple of the bottles she had set out, placed spigots in them, then nodded in contentment when he saw the carefully arranged glassware. She had bussed both their steins already, and polished the bar until lights gleamed in it and it exuded the faint smell of lemon and wax. All the tables and booths were ready, the floor spotless, and even the mirror had been cleaned. In the background he could hear a smoky-voiced singer working on a Tom Waits song and doing it well.

"Damn, woman, if I thought you were staying in town I'd try to offer you a part-time job doing set up for me! I know you have a full-time job already, though." Joe was sorely tempted, and not just to get a damn fine worker. Sooner or later, if she kept coming in, he could ask MacLeod or Pierson if she was an immortal--and he wanted very badly to know. Deep down in his gut, Dawson knew the Watchers had no record of this woman, and that they should.

To his surprise, Aidan looked sorely tempted. "Joe, I just don't know. I usually work or volunteer ten to twelve hours a week outside the house, just to make sure I come up from the translations periodically, else I hear a rumbling and realize I've not eaten or slept in forty-eight hours. And your 'Wurlitzer' inclines me favorably toward your place, to put it mildly. I can't wait to hear the bands tonight and yourself.

"But, there are things I need to know. What's the night-life like, here? The libraries and museums? What universities do you have? How are the phone lines, because I have to have data links for my job. Are there martial arts schools and what kinds? I will admit to being most severely cozened, not least by your job offer. What can you tell me?"

"Are you serious?" Her answer staggered him; that she would stay had never seemed a possibility.

Aidan walked over to him, pulled out a stool and sat down. "I'm most earnest. Would you want three hours, four days a week or two hours, five days a week? May I have the key to the jukebox when I'm working? And is there relatively affordable housing within a twenty minute walk or drive?"

Joe noted the casual adjustment of the jacket as she sat down and realized what had originally caught his attention: she moved and wore her clothes much like the other immortals he knew or had watched. But he shook the thought out of his head; that was for his report later, in his private journal. If he was right, he'd pass the selected entries on to her Watcher when one was assigned.

"Well, tell you what, let's start on the other questions, and deal with housing last. I suspect someone in all my friends can find you something. However, for night-life, here's Friday's playbook to look through. The libraries are good, the universities not bad. One of my friends frequently stops in on weeknights, when it's not as busy, and he's teaching classes in art history. If he comes by, I'll introduce you. And the data links are just fine, I live on the 'Net some nights."

"Last, and not least, if you'll take the job and agree to move into town, I've got a spare bedroom. You're welcome to stay with me while you look for a place to live. This includes immediate shower rights, as soon as I can draw you a map." He watched smugly as her jaw dropped; startling Aidan, he suspected and would later confirm, was an accomplishment.

"I.... Joe, you can't possibly...." Aidan stopped, stared down at the floor for a long second, then drew a deep breath and looked back up at him. "You realize you know nothing about me; I could be an ax murderer! A part-time job is one thing, this...."

Joe glared at her, overriding her voice effortlessly. "Don't give me that guff, lady. I know what I've seen. You're articulate, whimsical, perceptive--and courteous. I know damn well you helped with set-up because you knew I'd have trouble making up the time I spent on your lunch. Plenty of people would have said that was my own problem, I could have told you to come back when we're open. You got up off your duff and helped out.

"Now, I want you here two hours a day, Tuesdays thru Saturdays, to do opening. No problem with the jukebox key. Do this joint good to let you run the music! Do you want to be paid in cash, or have me keep a tab for you?"

Aidan stared at him, grey eyes bright with indignation, then amusement. "Ah, Gods, Joe, a tab by all means. I'm going to enjoy using it up when I'm off work! And I thank you very much, for everything. At the moment, I would commit perjury for a shower and a chance to dig out some of my clean clothes, but the idea of another sterile motel room turned my stomach. Done. Shall we shake on it?"

Joe held out his hand to her, leaning on his cane and beaming. "Done. Always good to be able to help out a friend." He was not at all surprised that her handshake was firm, her hands strong and callused.

"Now, if I can get one of my pencils back from you, I'll draw you a map." Joe waited expectantly, and was rewarded by her smile as she figured out which pencils he meant.

She handed him one, her hair tumbling back down, and paid close attention as he sketched a map complete with landmarks and compass point.

"If you're awake enough, come back around eight for the jazz. If you're sacked out and don't make it, I'll use the spare key on the landing to get in. Use the bedroom and the bathroom in the back of the house, they'll be the clean ones. Radio in the shower is set to the college station in town. Feel free to raid the music or the munchies, but try not to leave anything where I'll trip over it. Here's the number up here if you can't find something. I'll try to come by and check on you later. In the meantime... go get a shower and some sleep, Aidan. Call me when you get in, so I'll know you managed to read my map."

Aidan ruefully shook her head, listening to him. "Damn, and here I had always heard it was Southern hospitality which was so exceptional. Right. Bathroom and bedroom in the back, call when I get in, jazz at eight if I can wake up. That's about five hours of sleep after I unload a couple bags. Easily workable. And I'll keep my gear in the room, Joe, not a problem. Thank you again." She studied the map one more time, then pocketed it as well as the house key he handed her.

"No, thank you. Get going, you have got to hear this band tonight. I'll call Mac later and see if he can come by. Now get!" Joe shooed her along with one hand, as she headed to the door, laughing and making bad puns as she went, something about being 'band' already, and only here a couple hours.

"Eight o'clock it is, Joe. A promise."

Dawson watched her head to the door, moving with a long, athletic stride, and realized he was watching her ass. After she had blown back out the door, he reached behind the bar for the phone. When the answering machine picked up, he began speaking. "MacLeod, it's Joe. Can you come by the bar tonight? I need a favor or two...."

~*~*~*~*~

"So, what's this favor you need, Joe? I thought that was usually my line." Duncan sat at the bar, idly tapping his fingers in time with the music. A shot of his favorite scotch was in front of him, but Joe noticed he was ignoring it. Good, about time he cut back on the alcohol. Maybe he was about ready to talk to Methos again, too.

They'd been carefully ignoring each other after the deaths of the three Horsemen in Bordeaux, which was a damn shame. They had a strong friendship, too strong to be shattered easily, but balancing Methos' long history against Duncan's morals wasn't simple either. Before the two of them could talk and reconcile themselves, Duncan needed time to wear down in his mind the sharp edged fact that Methos had been a Horseman, had killed and raped as a matter of course, a way of life.

Just maybe, if Cassandra would quit dragging it up--maybe things would settle down. She was the only one who acted as if it were recent history. She insisted on seeing the destruction of her village as personal. To her, it was; to Methos, at the time, it hadn't been. Three or four millennia had to be the longest grudge Joe had ever heard of, even for immortals. Of course, most immortals would have settled it before now, or lost their heads trying.

"Actually, Mac, it's a couple favors. Young lady I just hired wants some information on the local universities and dojos. And if you can think of housing that might suit her, I'd appreciate it." Joe stroked his beard, trying to look thoughtful and unconcerned. Balancing his friendship with Duncan, his nascent friendship with Aidan, and his obligations as a Watcher would be tricky. _Some days_, Joe mused, _I should have gone into the circus juggling chainsaws...._

Duncan raised an eyebrow, lips curving into a half-smile. "You hired someone new and you're going to this kind of trouble for her? Is she another relative, or what? When do we get to the part about, 'Mac, she's too young for you'?" By now, the smile was sincere and the brown eyes gleamed with mischief.

"MacLeod, this one can take care of herself, and will. Aidan is.... Webster put her picture beside the word 'fey', all right? Just talk to her for me. I want her in town, I think she'll do this place some good. Hell, I even promise not to tease you if you ask her out! If I were ten years younger, I would!" Joe was pacing back and forth behind the bar as he spoke, barely watching Duncan's face. When he looked up, the other man spoke quietly, his expression serious now.

"If she's that important to you, of course I'll try to help. What's her last name? Aidan is Irish, isn't it?" He absently shook his pony tail back over his sweater collar with one hand, watching Joe. The Highlander remembered the last time Joe had been this attached to one of his staff. It had nearly broken Joe's heart, as well as Methos', when Alexa Bond died.

"The name she gave is Aidan Logan. I'll--" Joe never got into the second sentence.

"The name she gave? Joe, what do you mean? If you don't trust her...." Duncan leaned forward over the bar, intent on Joe's voice as well as his face. Over the last few years he'd learned how to read Dawson, and something was prickling down his spine.

"No, I trust her, beyond anything I can explain. She'd no more do something dishonest than you would. But Mac, I'm not sure if I'm losing my mind. Maybe I've been Watching too long, maybe I have immortals on the brain. I'd swear she is one! But there's nothing and no one anywhere close in the records and I just don't know what to think."

Duncan took a deep breath, four centuries of control and experience washing down into place. "No, I don't think you're slipping, Joe. Your instincts have almost always been reliable. What does your gut tell you?"

"My gut says she's an immortal, and not a new one either. I don't know how old. Very smooth if she is. But it also tells me she's a good one, in every sense of the word." Joe nodded once to himself as his agitation began to fall away. He had needed someone to ask him that so that he could hear his own answer. Maybe he'd just needed help with the soul-searching.

"Okay, we'll go with that, then. What does she look like? Nothing like anyone from my past, I hope?" Duncan's temper flared at the idea that Dawson had deliberately asked him to meet a possible immortal, placed him in a position of meeting someone who might be an old enemy. Realizing that had never crossed Joe's mind, the Highlander controlled himself and marked that down as a plus for her.

"Damn, Mac, I never even thought of that! No, she isn't in any of your chronicles. Caucasian female, definitely Anglo-Celtic or Celtic stock, that creamy pale skin some of the Welsh have. High cheekbones, pointed chin, aquiline nose, very expressive eyebrows and face. Almost feline in some ways. Dark brown hair to her waist, she had some of it braided back this afternoon. Grey eyes, thick lashes, no makeup. About five foot seven or eight, I'd say, broad shoulders, strong wrists, strongly muscled, callused hands. Short nails.

"Wearing a 'Dead Can Dance' t-shirt, bright aqua jeans, good quality black high-tops, and a navy pea jacket. Color and type, actually. Oh, only one piece of jewelry--an oak leaf pendant about three and a half, four inches in both length and width. Extremely well made. She's well read and whimsical in her speech and her music."

Dawson had been staring into the air above the bar trying to remember the details. From Duncan's face when Joe looked back at him, though, it was obvious she didn't match anyone the Scot had heard of.

"Joe, I don't know of anyone like that, although something about the oak leaf sounds familiar. I could call Connor, he might know. But... I'm not sure I'm willing to tell you if she's an immortal. I have trouble with the idea of the Watchers sometimes, the feeling that I'm being spied on, and I know you and like you. She doesn't even have that. And choices for female immortals are... harsher sometimes, than for the men." Duncan floundered as he looked for the right words, only to be saved by a feeling at once familiar and strange.

He felt a surge of immortal presence lap over him, knew it for the outskirts of her power, and realized he had never met this woman. He would know this presence again any time he felt it: definitely female, wide-ranging, and almost throbbing... pulsing was more like it, a very subtle vibration that felt like the murmur of a heartbeat. As he realized that, MacLeod felt the heart speed up as she sensed him as well.

Joe watched as Mac's eyes widened, dark brown and startled, then his friend turned unerringly to watch the two doors as Aidan walked in. She had twined most of her hair into an intricate mass of tiny braids, pulled back from her face with pearl-handled combs and falling loose over her back. She wore a deep red poet's shirt, blue jeans, and dark brown boots and sauntered into the bar as unconcernedly as she had headed out that afternoon.

Aidan felt him immediately, recognized the presence as distinctly male and powerful, but she knew Joe had seen her the moment she walked in. There was no way around this. Her shoulders shifted back in an almost instinctive check for her sword but through long practice she pulled calm around her as she moved through the crowd to the bar.

"Joe, I thought you said Tuesdays were usually slow?" She eyed the tall, dark man appraisingly, managing to make it look like a female studying an available male, but she was getting uneasy. This one would be trouble to take. Tall, wide shouldered, narrow waist--the body indicated he trained hard. And the face... wisdom, courage, and strength of will. Unfairly handsome as well, she noticed, with deep brown eyes, lovely shoulder-length black hair, and a gorgeous mouth. Incredibly sensual, the way the cheekbones angled down to those lips.

She dragged her mind back to the trouble she was in. _He's immortal, I'll not be bedding him regardless of what he looks like!_ At least the collar on the sweater would make it hard for him to get to a sword if the sheath ran down his spine. Though, a couple of daggers under the sleeves would be invisible and easily accessed, Aidan noted grimly.

"Yeah, well, usually they are. I said the band was good didn't I? What'll you have, Aidan?" Joe watched for any apprehension on her part, but she appeared unruffled.

"A good stout if you have some on draught, or hard cider would be better yet. Sorry, did I interrupt something?" Aidan stalled for time instinctively, mind reeling off names and descriptions of male immortals. Something was trying to surface and she needed it now, damn it, not in half an hour when it might be too late. _Something about Ramirez...._

Duncan had caught his breath as the impact of her presence lessened. It did that whenthe other immortal was close enough, and she was within arm's reach now. "No, Joe was just telling me you were new in town and needed a place to stay. From the hair, you would have to be Aidan Logan, right?" He watched to see what she would say, cautious but beginning to understand the effect she had had on Joe.

Despite herself, Aidan chuckled. "Well, I suppose I could be Rapunzel.... No, don't the tales claim she was blond? It is distinctive, isn't it? Yes, I'm Aidan, and you are...?" She let the sentence trail off, hoping for a name.

"Duncan MacLeod. I'm a friend of Joe's. Shall we grab a table and talk about what you want in the way of housing? I'm not in the business, but I bought an old home a year or so ago and I can give you some idea of what the market's like." He watched her as Joe turned away, but her face reflected only mild amusement and interest. For just a minute she reminded him of Methos. Duncan quickly pushed that thought away, intent on this new immortal.

"Thanks, Joe." Aidan reached out for the cider, quickly reviewing the name. Connor MacLeod she knew very well; they were good friends, buying each other dinner when they were in the same city, and occasionally storing things for one another. No great surprise, given that Connor had been Ramirez' last student. Duncan, though, she didn't know. Had Connor mentioned him once? That pig-headed Scot could be incredibly close-mouthed about personal things.

"Half a moment, good sir. Joe, did you manage to get your friend from the university?" Aidan continued to play for time. The longer this took, the better her chances were. She had learned patience and cunning long ago and would not abandon them now.

"You're talking to him, Aidan. Mac, make nice to the lady; I don't want to lose my new employee." Joe butted out of their conversation, partly because of other patrons, partly to let them sort this out. He knew that look on Duncan's face. Aidan had a long lifeline, all right.

Aidan waved at a booth with a clear view of the doors. "An' it suit you, good sir?" She half-bowed, one arm at the small of her back, the other waving to the booth. At no point did she take her eyes off his, although she was relaxing a bit. Possibly, if he was a friend of Joe's, this would turn out well enough. Her normal humor was reasserting itself, as well. If he wanted a challenge, she would give him the fight of his life. Until then, though, she would enjoy the band and the drink, she mused; not to mention the view. Definitely a pleasure for the eyes, this one. That began to trigger the memory. _Who was it who had discussed a young immortal that reminded her somewhat of Ramirez?_

"Certainly, fair lady, but are y' hungry?" Duncan used the bantering courtesy without thought, then decided it suited her well.

"No, tho' I do thank you for your offer." She would reserve bread and salt until she knew he was safe. Deliberately, though, she flashed him a dazzling smile, both to put him off guard and gauge his reaction. It would be interesting to see how much this one caught in the conversation ahead. _Caught, there's something in that; what was he in or who did he catch? That was part of the reference to his looks...._

Aidan's mind worked furiously as they moved through the few dancers to the booth she had indicated. Duncan couldn't help himself. She had retreated behind a persona and he wanted to talk to her, not some mask she wore for protection.

"You aren't from any African tribes, are you?" Deep brown eyes brimmed with mischief and the smile threatened to overflow his mouth as he watched and waited for her to catch his meaning. He was already sure of the answer.

Aidan's composure broke and she stared at him as if he were mad. "African? With this skin...." Abruptly what he was asking fell into place. She threw her head back, roaring with delight as the tension evaporated. "I haven't heard it put like that before! No, I'm not head-hunting--Gods forbid! May I buy your next drink, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod? I needed that."

Joe had glanced quickly in their direction at the laughter, then he relaxed a little. That would be all right then. Those two were going to get along like a house afire, he suspected.

"Aye, you can. Did you already know m' name, then?" Duncan settled himself more comfortably into his seat, sipping his scotch as she took a long drink of the cider.

"Actually, I suspect I know a kinsman of yours. Connor MacLeod?" She watched carefully, wary all over again. This was the tenuous part with other immortals, hoping that alliances and friendships didn't drag you into fights you never wanted. And this whipsawing of emotions - fear of challenge, anticipation of the adrenaline rush, wary pleasure at the possibility of a new friendship - was the most debilitating part of meeting new immortals. At times, she became tempted to challenge just to end the back and forth.

"Connor? He's the older of the two of us. Same clan, different vintage. A friend of yours, I hope?" Duncan had not expected this, but he took it in fairly well in stride. Connor mentioned enemies who got away, but not always new friends.

"Well, I bought him dinner three weeks ago up in Boston, and I think I still have some Italian daggers packed away for him." Aidan tilted her head; she was curious, tired of the indecision, and had no stomach for killing a relative of Connor's. "So, are we going to fight?"

"I certainly hope not. What are you doing in Joe's?" Duncan was beginning to enjoy the lady's company. Already he knew she ranged from being gloriously blunt to being as delicately evasive as the perfume he could barely smell. "And how d'you know Connor? Just like him to not mention a lovely lady."

"Truth? I was ravenous and came in to see if the food was any good. One of Joe's staff had called in sick, so I helped out. Of a sudden, I had a part-time job and a place to stay while I hunt for living quarters." Her voice and posture shifted and became subtly more formidable, which startled Duncan. "Or am I intruding in your territory?"

"Of course not. Are there really immortals fools enough to claim territories?" The idea struck him as both startling and staggeringly impractical.

"In the five boroughs of New York City, there are six younglings under a century--and Connor. Older immortals stay out unless they're on good terms with him. What do you think?" Aidan watched Duncan over the top of her glass. His answer should give her some formidable insights into him. _Now, who caught him? No, that doesn't feel quite right...._

MacLeod pondered what she had said, then replied resolutely, "No. It's an area he lives in, aye, and he's been there long enough that a fair number of immortals know the risks. But he makes no claims, nor tries to keep others out. He's simply good with a sword, and short on patience with fools or villains."

Duncan's last statement made Aidan smile in smug contentment, which shifted to fond pleasure and then brief, tearing grief. For a long moment she lost herself in memories, far from the bar and the jazz. From the expression on her face, Duncan didn't think it was anywhere she wanted to be.

"Aidan. Aidan, come away, come back. Aidan." Duncan caressed her name with his voice, pulling her back to the here and now, away from the memories.

She focused on him again, a little shaken, seeing him clearly once more. "Aye, Duncan, I'm here. Thank you. I was just remembering why and how I met Connor. It was because he's good with that katana of his.

"And I do agree with you, but some immortals are staking out cities or regions, and trying to defend them." She shrugged. "I suppose that's one way to hasten the Gathering."

"I'll remember that." Duncan watched her face, wondering if this was a good idea, but he continued, asking, "If it won't hurt you, will you tell me how you met my clansman? And what are you doing with some of his daggers?" Without thinking, he reached for one of her hands. Both of them already knew they weren't going to fight tonight, whether they had bothered to admit it aloud or not.

"No, Duncan, it won't hurt. Ten years ago, I found out that the Kurgan was finally dead at the hands of Connor MacLeod. I had a long-standing promise to fulfill, but I couldn't track down Connor's whereabouts to do it. After six months and no luck, I finally resigned myself to the court of last resort: Darius." Aidan smiled fondly, remembering her old friend. "Goddess, but I miss him. No one else has given me a good theological argument in years. I never expected to lay offerings on his grave. I always thought he would outlast me. "

"Aye, we all thought so. He was a good man." Duncan's hand tightened convulsively on hers and she returned the grip, communing silently with him in shared grief.

"Darius sent me to New York, said I needed to go to Nash Antiques. Thank Gods I'd bought the stuff in the U.S. and stored it there. The thought of the custom's duties..." Aidan shivered in mock fear, but her twitching lips betrayed her real feelings all too well. "You do know Connor's guardian bull-dog, Rachel, don't you? While I was still showing her the letter of introduction from Darius, Connor came out.

"Gods, that man is blunt. He looked me up and down and said he could barely see how I had fit into the dress. So if I had no sword, what business did I have with him?"

Duncan flushed in embarrassment at his cousin's behavior, but at the same time he was trying not to laugh as his eyes and mouth clearly betrayed. Aidan grinned at his predicament and took pity.

"Feel free to snicker; I certainly did. I had deliberately chosen the outfit for that very reason. I knew he'd be able to see any weapon I was fool enough to carry, and I wanted him to know it, too. I guess it worked. I asked him if he was Connor MacLeod, former student and avenger of Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez." The Spanish names rolled off her tongue lovingly.

"You know Connor; he just nodded and waited to see what I'd say next. So I asked him where he wanted the cases put? He's always so silent, he makes me taciturn myself. I hoped to the Gods he drank, but I wasn't about to ask him and I didn't tell him cases of what.... I've rarely met a Scot who didn't like good whiskey, however."

Duncan grinned and waved her on with her story. He could just see Connor watching this strange immortal, trying to figure out her game and unwilling to challenge her just yet....

Aidan radiated impish delight. "I wish you could have seen the look on his face as I kept bringing in the stuff.... I had cases of Glen Moray scotch, 1784 Warres port, 1887 Chateau Mouton Rothschild champagne, and 1972 Quintarelli valpolicella. One case for each century Ramirez had been dead.

"My head still hurts thinking about the hangover the next morning. Connor and I got so drunk that neither of us could stand up. We kept telling more stories and drinking more wine; we were alternating the port and the valpolicella. We finally started to sober up, because we couldn't even crawl to get the next bottle. Of course, I doubt we could have worked the corkscrew either," she mused, her expression far away. "When we could finally stand, he offered to buy me breakfast. Trying to call the taxi was bad enough, but getting the door open.... We literally fell inside.

"We've been good friends ever since that night. As soon as I have a new address, he'll ship my belongings out for me. And I still have his Italian daggers, because he asked me to store them until he asked for them back. Since it's only been a couple years, I'm assuming he'll remember eventually." Aidan fell quiet, lost in her own thoughts and concerns.

Duncan released her hand to signal the waitress for refills on their drinks. When the fresh glasses arrived, he caught Aidan's eye and raised his Scotch for a toast.

"To Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez, teacher of my teacher, and to Darius."

Aidan raised her glass and touched it to his. "And to all the others, gone but still loved. They live yet while our memories do. Slainté!" Her eyes were steady as they met his and both drank in silence. After a few minutes, she reached a hand out to his.

"Duncan? Does Joe know about you?"

He had been rapt in the band, giving her time for her own thoughts, but he looked up and seemed wary and a bit unhappy to her eyes. "Shall we trade question for question?"

Aidan raised an eyebrow, mouth quirking a bit. Did the Scot think to best her this way, then? He truly had no idea.... "Done. You first."

"Yes. Joe knows I'm immortal. And he has his suspicions about you."

Aidan closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as if an old wound had flared up. But as she exhaled, she relaxed again. Her eyes met his calmly when she opened them again. "Your turn."

"Did you study with Ramirez?" Duncan suspected he already knew the answer to this, but he wanted to hear her say it.

"Yes, I did. He was my second teacher and I loved him dearly. In many ways he was a father to me, and I had never had one before. Perhaps it was all the practice he got on nephews and nieces before he died the first time.

"My turn. I believe I've finally remembered where I heard of you. Did you travel for a while with Amanda Darrieux and Hugh FitzCairn?"

Duncan laughed, remembering good times with those two. "Yes, I did, at several different times! Where did you hear about that? Oh, damn, I hadn't meant that for my next question. I don't suppose..."

Aidan pursed her lips, and looked at him wryly. "Ah, ah, Highlander, you'll not charm an extra question out of me, even with those lovely eyes of yours. I've been immune to men's wiles for ages now! To answer your question, Rebecca Horne told me two centuries ago when we met in London. Something about a young immortal who had actually caught Amanda at her stunts and rather than challenging had stood both Amanda and Rebecca a drink. She told me your name but I forgot it and remembered only the description. She thought highly of you, by the way.

"Mine again. How old are you, to be this strong?"

"Four hundred and five, milady. I was found on Midwinter's Eve one century after Columbus claimed to have discovered the New World." Duncan watched her face carefully as he riposted. "And how old are you, to have studied with Ramirez?"

Aidan looked at him, then shrugged. "'Claimed' is right. Idiot braggart. Gods. Well, I suppose I could be irritating and tell you I'm twenty-three years older than Lao-tse, but you've played fair enough with me. Pass me a pen and I'll work out the math. Let's see, six hundred twenty seven plus one thousand nine hundred ninety-seven is... two thousand six hundred and twenty-four, found on Imbolc Morn. Our birthdays are fairly close." She took pity on his gaping mouth and closed it with one finger, then collected his shot-glass on the way to the bar.

"Joe? A glass of beer or wine, whichever Duncan drinks, and two large glasses of water. I'm weaning him off the Scotch. Also, I need some bread if you have any." She watched him carefully to see how much he was catching. She liked Joe Dawson, found herself trusting him more than she should, but Aidan had been taught concealment by a master.

"Yes, ma'am! If you can get him off the hard stuff, I'll buy you sandwiches for a week."

Aidan stared at Joe. "Get him off the hard stuff? Has he been drinking to excess? I only meant for tonight."

"He and a good friend of his, Adam Pierson, had a fairly serious fight. Not bad enough to destroy the friendship, but.... They're both stubborn, so it could be awhile." _No reaction to Pierson. How old is she? Would she know the name Methos? No good way to work it in, though, and the old man wouldn't thank me for blowing his cover. Oh, well._ "Mac's been taking it pretty hard."

"I'll see what I can do over the next couple weeks. Thanks for the warning." She took the basket of cheese toast and the drinks back to the table.

"Duncan?"

"Hmm? Oh, thanks. You're not what I'm used to in the older immortals. You're still having fun, aren't you?" Duncan had lost his good manners in the sheer shock of her age. _More than two millennia? Six centuries before Christ? No wonder she swears by a Goddess--but which one or ones?_

"Yes, I am. May I offer you bread and salt, brother?" She held out the cheese toast and the salt shaker, waiting to see his reply.

"And they that take bread and salt with ye are as your brothers, and your hand shall not be lifted against them.... I don't want to fight, Aidan, but my feelings toward you aren't likely to stay brotherly."

Aidan saw the intense sensuality in his eyes, and if he was anything but an immortal.... She gave him the compliment of responding with the truth. "Duncan, I am sorry. If I were willing to make an exception, you would be high on the list. But I never take immortal lovers. I won't do that to them or to me." She watched him, hoping that just once someone would understand.

"Why not? Well, hold on." Duncan took a piece of the toast, sprinkled salt on it, and tore it in half. "Here. Bread and salt, Aidan."

"Bread and salt it is, Duncan." She ate the piece slowly, famished again. She realized suddenly that it was after nine and she'd had nothing since the reuben at noon. MacLeod smiled and pushed the basket at her. "Have you had dinner yet?"

"No, I haven't. I wasn't willing to share food with you until I knew if you would challenge and then we started talking...." She shrugged and took a bite of another piece of the toast.

"Will you explain? And then we can get some dinner. What are you doing tomorrow?"

Aidan looked at him, then nodded slowly. "I'll explain, and I'd like dinner. I suspect we have more friends in common then we've mentioned. I have to be here at ten to open up, but I'm free at noon."

"All right, tomorrow afternoon we'll look over the property listings in the newspaper and the real estate magazines and start checking out likely places. It's no problem, my class is in the morning."

"Thank you. I appreciate it. And the explanation is very simple, at least to me. When you take a lover, one or both of you becomes vulnerable to the other. Come the Gathering it would be a chink in their armor, or mine, or both. I won't do that, to them or to me. I just won't."

Duncan stared at her in astonishment. He could see some of her reasoning, but he'd never heard that philosophy from another immortal. Sean Burns would be rolling in his grave, and some of his memories were flinching in the back of Duncan' s mind.

"Aidan, you can't be sure you'd have to fight them. How can you stand to take only mortal lovers, knowing you'll outlive them? God, woman, how strong are you?"

"Not strong enough, some days. I haven't taken a lover in eight years." Aidan stared fixedly over his head, holding her composure by nails and teeth. "Ask me some night when I can get well and truly drunk, and I'll tell you, if you're up to it. But not tonight.

"As for whether we'd have to fight? Immortals are always entangled in strife and death. I know that much. And the Romans had a saying which I've seen at work more than once: 'The Fates lead him who will. Him who won't, they drag.'" The remorse and old pain in Aidan's face made her age more believable somehow. "Can you understand this?"

"Aye, I can understand. I don't agree, but I can see why you live this way. But how can you stand it? You're refusing to take lovers from the ones who can understand you best, the ones who might just outlive you, instead of the other way around. It's so nice to be able to talk to someone who thinks in terms of decades, not months, who can remember the same things, the same times you do.

"And there's nothing that compares with a lover who's as skilled as you are. Don't you get tired of training them in bed? I'm four hundred and Amanda is still showing me new things. How do you stand it?"

Aidan stared at him, startled, surprised, and pleased. Even Methos had never been this blunt, and Connor had never asked for an explanation. He had accepted her 'no' and they had stayed friends. But very few ever asked her reasons, and then tried to point out errors in logic.

"Some days, I don't bear it well at all. And yes, I get tired of training them. But I can accept enthusiasm in place of skill. Bear in mind, what do I have to compare them to except other mortals?

"The worst is watching loved ones die. I know they'll be back in another body, another life. But I hate watching that slow decay take a person I've loved, giving them all the small miseries and enfeebling restraints. That's the worst of it. I can bear them leaving me, but not the pain they go through as they end."

Duncan, face solemn, shook his head at some of the images that conjured in his mind. How many had she lost that way in twenty-six centuries, to be able to explain it so vividly? "I'm sorry, Aidan. Shall we go get some dinner, before this gets too maudlin? I promise to discuss housing and dojos and the annoyances of moving, instead of anything depressing."

Aidan smiled suddenly, and MacLeod understood why Connor traded meals with her and Joe had offered her a job. She simply enjoyed life and made it contagious.

"By all means, I'm starving. And yes, I would really like to discuss housing. I want my music back, and my books!"

Duncan raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "After you, then. One thing. Will you mind if I check occasionally to see if you're willing to make an exception yet?"

Aidan chuckled as she stood up. "No, not at all. You won't be the first. If it makes you feel any better, my first teacher thought I was mad. Ramirez just thought I had gone a bit too far, but he stayed out of the discussion. He swore that he was only trying to keep me from losing my head, as no man had ever managed to teach a woman how to protect her heart."

As the two walked out, Duncan grinned at Joe and said, "I promise, I'll have her home at a reasonable hour so she can open up the bar."

"MacLeod--you'd better. I'll know when she gets in." Joe grinned wickedly at the bewilderment on the Scot's face and the mischief on Aidan's. _Always good to add new friends to the group_, he thought cheerfully to himself. _She'll hear me play another night...._

~*~*~*~*~

"Joe, I'm done for the morning! Anything else you need, ere I frolic in the winds all feather and talon?" Aidan leaned in the door, her head at waist level. At the last moment, Joe realized she was dodging the tangle of equipment in the hallway.

"Is there anything you could do to clear that hall? Fire marshall'd have a fit," Joe growled as he swung up from his chair.

"I don't do miracles, my sorrow to say. Shall I explain to the band on my way out, however, that their chances of getting full pay for the gig will increase immeasurably should they create order from this monstrous mother of Night?" She regarded him from calm, wicked eyes and the tones and shadings of that purring voice told Joe the new band had irked her this morning.

"What did they do? And how bad did you scare 'em?" He viewed her merry villainy placidly, aware that she kept herself firmly within check. A week in her company had taught him that, as had her handling of the ambitious drunk two nights ago. Joe had never seen a man frog-marched by pinkie and ear; it had been an entertaining experience.

"They have, as of yet, done nothing so bad it warrants reporting them to the paymaster-general, that being you. However I have informed them that should you find objection to my set-up for the morning, I shall take it out of their finger calluses and so polish the bar." She regarded him in mock consternation. "The young of this day have no appreciation for a finely-turned threat, I regret to say. But they do seem to have taken the hint. They may even be set up in time to run a sound-check by three, but again I may be optimistic."

Joe sighed and headed for the door. "Then, yeah, I need one more thing: help navigating this rat chase that used to be my back hallway! How's the house hunting going?"

"It goes well indeed; if this building is as promising inside as out, I'll hold title on it by the end of the week. Duncan and I both think that it will be no problem to buy something zoned residential/commercial as I'm self-employed. That I don't need much space for my work is irrelevant, apparently. Lawyers. We should never have taught the little buggers to write. Obviously we didn't teach them to think! Ah, well, they're good for running title searches, and with cold, hard cash I don't need them for much else." Aidan shoved, pushed, levered, and forced items out of the way with complete disregard for anything that wasn't the walls, the floors, or Joe.

"A warehouse, though, Aidan? Why? Do you folks just like space?" He broke stride for a second as he realized his error.

"It took you long enough to admit you know me for what I am. Were you just trying to win MacLeod the bet? And I have my uses for the space; I'm a disgusting pack-rat, I fear, but I forget to leave something behind in trade, do you see." She cleared the last guitar case out of Joe's way and looked back.

"Okay, so I know what you are. What bet?" Joe gave her a suspicious look as it began to sink in that he'd been had. "How much trouble will renovating this be? You need to start writing soon, don't you?"

"It's a storehouse, Joe, not a warehouse. There's a difference in design. A warehouse is usually on one floor, occasionally two, and sprawls. This is four floors and no more than fifty feet on a side, and it's built of brick, timber and glass, not cold metal and unfeeling concrete. I can make this quite livable. Besides, it has windows." Aidan looked hugely pleased with herself, which amused Joe.

As they came out into the front of the bar, he noticed that the band was moving much more quickly in setting up their gear, despite being.... "Barefoot? Aidan?"

"They can't seem to work doormats, Joe, possibly because there are no moving parts? I grew tired of mopping the floor." She smiled at the bassist, teeth flashing. He nodded to her, very politely, and watched warily as she kept going.

Billy Joel was singing in the background, from Aidan's programming Joe didn't doubt. She sang along with the last chorus, in a surprisingly good, smoky mezzo-soprano. He thought that "I Go To Extremes" might just have to be her theme song. As the jukebox kicked over to Robert Plant singing "Hangman, hangman, wait a little while," Aidan shivered slightly, and resumed the discussion.

"The refurbishment won't be too bad, Joe. It was originally built to be a weaver's sweatshop and thus needed solid floors, high ceilings, and lots of lighting. I'll have to put in skylights to make the fourth floor livable, but I have no expectation of taking a protégé anytime too soon, so that can wait until later in the year. The main problem will be the sheer footage of floor and wall to refinish, and modern inventions will help immeasurably.

"Then too, I speak very good Latin. The translations will take less time than my publishers think."

Aidan shrugged her overcoat on, and kissed Joe on the cheek. "I need to scout some of the hardware and equipment rental shops. I'll be in late again, I fear, but I will come by to hear this band tonight. As for the bet? Duncan said it would take at least a month for you to betray your knowledge to me. Of course, he didn't know when he made the bet that I was staying in your guest bedroom."

She chuckled softly as Joe shook his head and then scored a point in the air for her. Aidan paused to coil her hair at the back of her head, pinning it neatly into place. It was still damp from the morning's thunderstorm, but at least this way it wouldn't soak the back of her car seat.

"You'll train him one of these days. How many bets has he lost to you this week?" The casual rivalry between Aidan and MacLeod continued to surprise Joe; he wouldn't have thought Mac would compete against a female immortal that way. Aidan, however, took great glee in winning--which she had done in five of the seven contests Joe knew about. Without being obnoxious in victory, she kept him on edge, ready to spar if not yet with swords to the best of Joe's knowledge. _Wonder if she is trying to teach him?_

"Most of them, I regret to say. Soon enough he'll discover not to take my wagers. Later, Joe. Gentlemen, I will return this evening. Behave."

Five full seconds after she had closed the door behind her, when they were sure she wasn't coming back in, the entire band exhaled in noisy relief. Joe smiled at them. "Guys, that was my cleaning crew. She'll be back for the late night set. About my back hallway?"

~*~*~*~*~

Aidan had already dismissed the young musicians from her mind as she navigated her way through the wet streets to DeSalvo's Martial Arts. She and Duncan were going to look over that building today and hopefully set the machinery in motion this afternoon to buy it. She already knew the title was free and clear, the mortgage company which had foreclosed on it had verified her funds from the capital gains of her New York home, and she could take possession this afternoon if she liked.

Aidan could feel something pressing on her, a premonition that she must be in and settled by Midsummer's Day. That gave her only thirty-one days, just under five weeks. Feelings like this were dangerous, they meant something momentous loomed, waiting to strike. All too often it was another immortal's sword.

She knew better than to disregard the sensation, but hadn't yet confided in Duncan or Joe. The time wasn't right, they didn't know her that well yet. But part of her mind was juggling work to be done and hours available; this was going to be nasty. She would almost certainly have to call in some favors, or hire help, but she loathed having unknown factors tampering with her belongings.

She parked behind the dojo, slung her coat on automatically, and took the stairs up to the gym two at a time as always, only to come to a startled halt just inside the landing. Duncan had company: immortal, female, and old. An odd flavor to this presence called up skills dating back to Aidan's youth. Immediately she forced herself to calm; the city did not need another shower today.

Through the glass doors she could see the woman: tall, probably an inch or so taller than Aidan before she had put on those high heels. In the shoes, the lady almost matched Mac's height. She had long reddish-brown hair, large eyes, and a lovely face and body, with a decidedly exotic flair to her features. There was no way she had a sword concealed in those clothes, though, and her coat lay across the bench four feet from Aidan.

Apparently Duncan recognized the presence, because he didn't turn to see who was at the stairs. The unusual stranger glanced at Aidan, but never even broke off her diatribe. Aidan eavesdropped unashamedly.

"Yes, Duncan, you've cut out their heart, and even killed the arms, but the head yet lives. Of them all, he is the most deadly, and he yet lives. Do you want the Four Horsemen reborn? Why did you call me off? I could have finished it!"

"We've been over this before, Cassandra." MacLeod stalked to the door of office and back; he sounded frustrated and weary of the argument. "They're dead. Yes, I called you off. He's my friend, damn it! It's over."

Aidan's eyes narrowed, watching this. Who did this woman think she was? Even after a week, Aidan understood full well what it meant to have the Highlander as a friend.

"Friend, Duncan? The man is a murderer, a rapist--Death on horseback! And you want to save his life? He destroyed my village, my people, killed me again and again to break me--and he's your friend?! He must be finished, and if you won't do it, at least don't stand in my way." The cadence of Cassandra's voice changed as subtle undertones and compulsions laced her words. "Methos is no one's friend, Duncan. It will never be over until he's dead."

Aidan stalked through the doors, face and eyes gone remote, weight centered for combat, and moved immediately between Cassandra and her coat. In her mind she had already moved to that detached place where only the enemy, the environment, and the weapons existed. "That will be enough of that, I think. Stop."

It took a few seconds for Cassandra to realize that this strange immortal had interrupted her. Her spell fell apart as she growled, "This is a private discussion. Leave us."

"Cassandra, Aidan is supposed to be here. I told you I have to leave for a business meeting in half an hour," Duncan snapped. He had the oddest feeling, as if he had just surfaced after falling into deep water. Then he saw where Aidan was standing, and the stance she had taken. Had this just gotten out of hand? If it had... the rule was one on one, and Aidan had started this.

"Cassandra, is it? One, it's not private, not at that volume. Two, you've already involved me. I dislike liars and fools, and you're one or the other. And three, if you attempt to use magic on Duncan again, against his best interests, I will take your head." Aidan's voice held no merriment, no amusement, and her eyes watched Cassandra from that far distance, as ready to strike as to speak.

"Who are you to threaten me? This is none of your business!" Cassandra wheeled, facing Aidan. She paled suddenly as she realized that this inexplicable, powerful immortal had blocked the way to her sword.

"You've made it my business. I know bardic Voice when I hear it, and I say again, you will not do this. There are very few of us who can use magic. I had heard of Cassandra the witch, said by some to be a healer. You seem more interested in poisoning than healing.

"But I don't threaten, and I need no reason. We are immortal, which is enough. I am Aidan Logan and that will have to content you, unless you know what this is." Almost casually, Aidan reached inside her t-shirt with her left hand and flipped out the pendant.

"It's an oak leaf. What of it? Who are you to call me a liar?" Cassandra resorted to her oldest and best weapon: words. Inwardly, she began a hasty list of names. There were not many female immortals this old. Somewhere she had to have heard of this one. Who was she?

"Wrong answer. Who are you to attempt to use one of the MacLeods against his will? And what, precisely, is your grudge against Methos? Which Methos?" Aidan flowed smoothly to one side, blocking Cassandra's attempt to get to her sword.

Duncan watched uneasily, knowing how quickly Aidan moved when she wanted. Although he hadn't had a chance to spar with her yet, he suspected that in matters of combat she was one of the stronger female immortals. Ramirez never trained students to be helpless. Besides, if he understood what Aidan implied, Cassandra had attempted to bespell him? His eyes narrowed as he ran the conversation back through his mind, while trying not to miss too much of the argument in front of him.

"The true Methos, the one five thousand years old--the murderer! Six feet tall, hazel eyes, black hair, a Roman beak of a nose, and treacherous as any snake!" Cassandra feinted toward her coat again.

Aidan smiled at her, and blocked her way with a contemptuous ease. "No, I think I'll stay here for now. Snakes act within their own nature. Methos' nature is survival. What is your grudge? And when did it happen?" She asked her questions with an uninflected politeness that flicked Cassandra raw.

Duncan started at her words. Obviously, Aidan knew Methos, and well, but from where? Or when?

"I say again, who are you to ask?" she snarled. "Duncan, are you going to allow this?"

"Yes, he is. The rules are clear. One on one, no fighting on Holy Ground, and no interfering once the challenge has begun." Aidan produced a dagger with her left hand and a swept-hilt saber with her right. "As to who am I? I'm the person with the sword. You may answer my questions or my blade, it makes little difference to me."

Duncan stepped back, hands extended and mute. Concerned though he was, he would not interfere. Aidan was right about the rules. But he couldn't leave, either. Over the last week, he had come to value Aidan's observations, her accumulated humor and good sense. Mac needed to hear someone immortal defend Methos, if she could. He missed the oldest immortal more every day, but his honor and his love for his friend had made his heart a battleground for months now.

Aidan continued speaking, not worried about the younger man's actions. MacLeod had integrity; there would be no intervention. "We are direly short of healers among the immortals. Darius, Elizabeth, Col-Tec, Adrianna of Constantinople, Sean Burns--all have died in the last decade or so. But I have no need to leave you be; I've yet to see you do weal. I dislike poisoners. So I say again: when was this?" Her last three words broke the air in separate beats, spaced slow and heavy as the drum beats before the firing squad squeezed their triggers.

"More than three millennia ago, when I was born," Cassandra looked to see the effect of this and realized the other woman did not care. "The Four Horsemen had already been legend for three generations then; they rode out of the sun, killing as they chose and stealing anything they wished. They left nothing living behind when they struck, and they took what women they would, killing them when the woman ceased to be pleasing."

"A bit more violent than most, but still normal for those days." Aidan remarked calmly. "I remember Athens took a city during the Peloponnesian War--Melos, I believe it was. All the fighting men were killed, the women and young boys enslaved, and the males run through the thigh with sword or spear to mark them for life. This was in the days when Socrates taught Plato, and Xenophon had not yet marched with the Ten Thousand. What else?"

Cassandra's face flushed with rage at the question. "He killed Hijad, my teacher, a skilled healer. They slaughtered all of us, for nothing. We had nothing, Hijad even told them so! Methos took me for his own, knowing I was immortal, killing me any time I broke his rules. He raped me, again and again! Then he handed me over to the other Horsemen, for their pleasure. When I could, I stabbed one of the others and ran. I died a dozen times in the desert, escaping them!"

Cold grey eyes regarded Cassandra appraisingly, and then Aidan shook her head from side to side, slowly, rage beginning to burn up within her.

"Duncan, do I understand correctly that Methos is a friend of yours?"

As always, Cassandra's story tore at the Highlander, if only because of the impassioned truth behind it. Methos had admitted her story was true, although he also claimed he had refused to stop Cassandra's escape into the night. All he would say was that Cassandra was one of his regrets. But how could MacLeod forgive himself for giving his loyalty to a man who had done such things?

Aidan waited patiently for the answer; she felt nothing but compassion for the younger man in this. Cassandra had apparently been trying to split him away from Methos. Broken friendships.... A thought spun briefly across her mind; if she called Adam Pierson, would she recognize the voice?

"I didn't know he had.... Yes, he's a friend."

Aidan heard the confusion and grief in the admission, but she would worry about healing him later. "Then sit and listen, acushla. Listen well." She swung her full attention back to Cassandra.

"Tell me if I understand you: three thousand years ago, Methos gave you your first death and enslaved you. Or was he even the one who killed you?"

Under that unflinching gaze, Cassandra reluctantly admitted, "No, Kronos killed me, trying to stab Hijad. I died immediately."

"Then you maintain Methos enslaved you and helped kill your tribe. Is that much correct?"

"Yes! He...."

"Silence! You've talked, now I'm clarifying." Aidan's sword trailed intricate patterns through the air, throwing light across the room as it flashed in and out of the sun. Cassandra fell silent, furious with the other immortal's high-handed air.

"He took you for his bed, his service, or both?" The clinical voice lacerated Cassandra's control, shredding it apart. The redhead lunged for her sword, only to find her legs swept out from beneath her. Cassandra rolled over and Aidan's swordpoint rested on her throat. "Answer me."

"Both. Do you plan to kill me in cold blood, then, the way he used to?" Brown eyes glared into grey, but Aidan stood unmoved.

"If I do kill you, you'll get your sword first." Aidan backed away toward Cassandra's coat, getting out of range of a kick. "Stand up, move to the bench and sit down. Go for your weapon before I'm through talking to you, and I'll simply kill you, tie you to the weight bar, and continue the discussion once you revive. I'm trying to decide whether you're a liar or a fool. Move."

"A liar? Who are you to talk? You'd defend a monster. You're tired, Aidan, it's been a long morning. There's no need to fight and the saber is so heavy...." Cassandra wove her spell with rolling cadences, purring undertones, and subtle changes of pitch. It was done as well as any she had tried in a hundred years.

For a long second, Duncan thought it would work, as the younger woman paused, apparently for thought. Then the sable-haired immortal shook herself, like a dog shedding water, and sheathed her dagger in her belt. Aidan held out her left hand to Cassandra, palm up and cupping air like a gift; then she pursed her lips and blew a single puff of breath across her fingertips.

The oak leaf gleamed as a wind blasted through the glass doors from the stairs and threw Cassandra skidding across the room, until she slammed into the opposite wall, cracking her head on the bench. Aidan lowered her hand and smiled up at the ceiling. "Thank you, Mother."

When she turned her head to regard Cassandra, the humor hovered around the corners of her mouth, refusing to be entirely banished. Duncan straightened up from where he had leaned into the wind, brutally aware that this situation had passed beyond any control of his. Now he would have to trust Aidan's mastery of herself.

"If you leave your magic out of this, I'll do the same. The deal is to your advantage, I assure you. Take it. Now."

Cassandra managed to look up, vision still blurred from the healing concussion. "I.... Who are you? What are you that you can do that?"

The amused scorn on Aidan's face scorched Cassandra's ego. "All those years in Scotland and not the faintest idea of what I am? Tsk. Suffice it to say, your vocal tricks won't do more than annoy me--and I'm already unhappy with you. Agree to the deal. Now."

"So be it, I'll not use magic in this." She sat up, shaky but composed and pushed herself up on the bench. Cassandra slipped her feet out of the heels and threw a longing look at her coat. With an effort, she refrained from rubbing her head, not wanting to show the other woman her weak points.

"You may yet learn. Now then, you were enslaved, forced into service, and Methos tried to break your will. You claim he did not succeed. Am I correct?" Aidan stood there, the point of her saber resting easily on the toe of her boot. She watched Cassandra through eyes that reminded Duncan of misty mornings near the loch, with light showing fitfully through silver fog.

"Yes, he did those things, and no, he did not break me." Cassandra glared at the younger woman. "Is this a challenge or not?"

"Are you in such a hurry to lose your head, then? You are a fool. I'm not done asking questions. When was the last time you saw him?" Aidan tilted her head, waiting inexorably for this answer.

"Three weeks ago, in France. I let him live." Cassandra snarled the answer.

"And before that?" The implacable, hounding voice continued the interrogation without rancor or mercy.

"Here in Seacouver, four days before. He threw me off the bridge. And the day before that, he hid behind MacLeod when I came for his head!" Cassandra flung that one, wanting to sting this impervious woman out of her calm.

Aidan just raised one eyebrow. "And before that? Continue."

"In his tent in the desert as Kronos dragged me away. What's the point of this?" The older woman saw no reason in this exercise, except possibly to wear her down. Who was this one? She had never heard of an immortal who used elemental magic!

"In three thousand years, you saw him twice? Once in your youth, and then again three weeks ago? Do I understand this correctly?" Aidan's voice held only mild curiosity.

"Yes. What of it?"

Cassandra watched in shock as the facade of detachment evaporated from Aidan's face. The younger woman glared at her in a cold rage that began to erode even Cassandra's arrogance.

"Every word you have said has been about you: 'my village, my mentor, my people.' What of the other villages the Horsemen slaughtered, the other slaves who were there when you suffered? Not a sound, not an erg of sympathy. You ran for your safety, granted 'twere the wisest thing to do, and hid. You buried your head in the sand for three thousand years and thought the Horsemen gone or obliterated. How did you find out they yet lived? Never mind, I don't much care.

"You then decided that since the world only existed for you, obviously it couldn't have turned for them. You are a fool, utter and complete. You refuse to know the whole truth; you'll take your one little piece of it and insist to all and sundry that the elephant's tail you hold is actually a venomous snake!"

Aidan snarled as she continued, and the look on her face silenced Cassandra as effectively as the sword in her hand. "Are you still the whipped slave who submitted to Methos and convinced herself she loved him? Thinking that if you did it out of love, you weren't a slave, you were merely devoted?" Aidan smiled, a vicious twist to her mouth as the redhead gasped, one hand flying to her mouth. The bolt bit into Cassandra because there was no defense against that truth.

"It's normal, Cassandra. What's worse: that you loved him, that he let Kronos have you, or that you could fall prey to such a common reaction?"

"I am not a slave! It was three thousand years ago! And I never loved him!" Cassandra started to push herself up off the bench and Aidan's sword came up so swiftly air hissed around the blade. She subsided back down, slowly, hands out to the side.

"That answered my question, I think. No, you're not a slave. You're treacherous, manipulative, untrustworthy--but neither trained nor subdued. And you're very right. It was three thousand years ago. You grant yourself the right to change but not him?

"You're not a Goddess to freeze Methos in stone for an age of the world. What do you know of what he's done, or been, or seen since you knew him?" Aidan tilted her head, the saber still leveled. She looked like some deadly sculpture herself, perfectly balanced and motionless.

"He's Methos. He doesn't change, he can't! He'd have to have a heart and all he has is that calculating mind, better suited to a rabid dog or some petty tyrant! And what do you know of him? Who are you to argue with me? He killed me, again and again!" Cassandra raved, brown eyes wide, chest heaving with balked rage.

Duncan watched dumbfounded as Aidan laughed, a vibrant, amused sound.

"I can't count how many times Methos killed me, Cassandra. The number most assuredly exceeds one hundred. He killed me the first time I died, and probably the next sixty times after that. Then he and Ramirez took it in turns for a decade or so."

Aidan pursed her lips, grey eyes wicked. "Are you beginning to understand where you are, what is going on around you? How old do you think I am, Cassandra? Guess. Get it right, you have three chances only. You are rapidly running through even my patience, difficult as that is to do to a former slave."

Cassandra stared, drenched out of her self-pity in one cold moment as her sense of self-preservation roused itself. Suddenly the world shifted into place with an almost sickening wrench, her assumptions deserted rapidly for something much closer to truth. Had her concussion not already healed, she might well have been ill then and there.

"An oak leaf.... Ah, Gods. More than a thousand, more than two thousand. The druids were still there when Gaius Caesar sacked Britain before Christ was ever born. How old are you? What was Methos to you?"

"Very good. Perhaps there's hope for you after all. The beginning of wisdom is knowing what you don't know--and what questions to ask. I'm younger than you, but I have seen more than twenty centuries come and go. How many more is my business.

"Methos was my first teacher. He found me at twelve with the druids and waited, guarding me so that I wouldn't be trapped in a youngster's body forever, or one that had been maimed. When I was sixteen, he told me what we were and convinced me by killing himself to prove it." Aidan lowered the sword again.

"Surprised, Cassandra? I was the second protégé he took after he left the Horsemen. He discussed with me what age I should be when I died, and made it as painless as he could. Do you know how long it took him to learn to control that lust for dominance, for power and pain and fear? Do you have any idea how difficult it was for him to master himself while training me?

"His instruction would be considered harsh today, but then? Methos knew I would revive if he killed me while teaching me. I assure you, the shock of a sword sliding into my body made me a very quick learner. But he never once hurt me unnecessarily, never for his own pleasure."

"So what did he do with you for his own pleasure?" Cassandra tilted her head in deliberate mockery of Aidan's body language. "Or are you telling me that the master manipulator never bedded you?"

Aidan shifted her shoulders back in a movement that gave Duncan an uneasy sense of deja vu. She had done the same thing the first time she saw him. "I've been raped by an immortal, but I've never taken one as a lover. And no, it wasn't Methos. He never knew about it. For his pleasure Methos taught me--languages, war, metalworking, people. But not sex."

Cassandra somehow managed to look down her nose at Aidan, not easy when she was the one sitting down. "I'm sure that as an innocent young thing--if you were innocent--it never occurred to you that he was using you. He plays roles so well: the graduate student, the loving teacher, a best friend. But he is still murderous. He doesn't fool me."

Aidan raised an eyebrow, scornful and unimpressed. "No, I began celebrating the full rites at fifteen. I was not innocent in the sense you're implying. But he played no role. No one ever cozened Ramirez for long, certainly not the fifteen years we three were together. Give it over, woman, Methos and I have been friends for as long as we've known each other, and I've known him far longer than... what, a few months as his slave and then about three days this century?

"And Cassandra? All of us are murderous--or dead. Even Darius, Gods send him back to us soon, could and did tear strips off your ego when it was needed, using only his tongue. For the love of the Goddess, when I first met him Darius was a warrior to make your blood chill were you on the other side of a battle from him. He converted to holy works and did his best to change other immortals as well, to mend fences where he could. I don't know when I've been more relieved."

"So lacking Darius, Methos sent you to 'mend his fences' with MacLeod? Still using others to fight his battles and keep himself safe?" Cassandra spread her hands in a subtle mockery of priestly benediction.

"Cassandra!! He fought Silas for your head!" Duncan's outrage penetrated even Aidan's composure. She flinched, eyes closing for a second, then she looked back at Cassandra.

"If anyone here uses others to fight their battles, I would say it were you. I believe the usual term is whoring?" Cassandra drew in an outraged breath, but before she could say anything, Aidan stepped back a few paces and picked up the other woman's coat off the bench.

"I said my patience was not limitless. That was your third chance. You asked the wrong questions." Aidan threw the coat to the floor at Cassandra's feet.

"You have three choices at this point. I suggest you listen to them. You may swear on your magic never to discuss Methos with anyone again, as you know only a small portion of the truth and refuse to learn, much less report, the rest. You may swear on your magic to try to learn over the next twenty years the rest of what Methos is. If you still believe, after true effort on your part, that he is nothing but a murderer, then you may say what you please. Your third option is to draw your sword, because you will not hold to silence or study truth. Which will it be?" She waited, calm and centered, watching the other woman intently.

"There's nothing to learn. I saw him in France. He was still using others, still a Horseman. I will not allow the Horsemen to be reborn!" Cassandra's voice rang with outraged conviction.

Aidan backed away from the other woman, wanting maneuvering room. "No. I will not pass this. Yes, he uses others when there is need. So do you, and on occasion so do I. But not this time." She never took her eyes from Cassandra's face. "Challenge, Cassandra. There can be only one."

Duncan came swiftly to his feet, moving in between them. "Aidan!!"

Cassandra held out conspicuously empty hands, just as Duncan tried to keep the two apart. She snapped out, "Hospitality law, Aidan, or are you grown senile?"

At the same time, Duncan bellowed, "Holy Ground, damn it!"

"What?!" Aidan whipped around, eyes huge as she stared at Duncan. She backed away, one step, then a second, a third, until she had a good ten feet between herself and the other two. "There was no need to remind me, Cassandra. Dawn, at the Mayfair exit overpass. It's an abandoned highway exit, it'll be private enough. That's 5:30, if you haven't noticed." Sable hair threw light back at the Highlander as she gave him a half-bow. "I would not destroy your school and apartment for you, Duncan. However, what Holy Ground?"

"It's a dojo, remember? Did you forget how many of them contain shomen?" Duncan nodded toward a shadowed corner of his office, grateful Aidan had not been here to spar before now. If he was very lucky...

"Shomen? Isn't that a...." Her voice trailed off, then she shivered. "A Shinto shrine. Oh blessed Mother. I'm glad you stopped me. I don't think I would have gone for a quickening under your roof, but still..."

Duncan looked at Cassandra grimly. "As for you, find someplace else to stay. You've no grounds to be calling Guest Right when you tried to bespell me." As he watched her face, the play of emotion revealed that Aidan had been right. Cassandra had tried to control him with her Voice.

He walked up to her and gripped her upper arm firmly. "I'll just go up with you to get your bags, and my elevator key." Duncan called back over his shoulder, "Aidan, don't go anywhere. I'll be right back. We need to leave for that meeting; we're late."

"I'll call and let them know, Duncan." She still sounded composed as she pulled the carefully insulated case out from her duster and opened her cell phone.

When they came back down the stairs, Cassandra was flushed. Duncan's face had set into a grimly determined expression; he had pulled on a black trench coat and was carrying one of her bags. Aidan put her cell phone back in its case and moved completely out of their way as they headed to the door. A thought crossed her mind, and without hesitation she spoke. "Cassandra?"

The older immortal turned to face her. "What?"

"You gave Methos his life in France. Why?" Grey eyes studied her unflinchingly.

"Because MacLeod demanded it," Cassandra snarled.

Aidan nodded once and fell silent. She gathered up her own coat, dropping the phone in one of the inside pockets, and followed them out, waiting patiently as Duncan locked up. Cassandra's tires squealed in an almost adolescent pique as she left.

Duncan drove, handling his T-bird competently but angrily. Aidan sat on her side of the car, riding out both his temper and her own. By the time they met the realtors to look over the interior of the storehouse, however, he had finally quit drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Relieved, Aidan turned her mind to the property. She knew they would discuss this later, but they were still friends, thank the Lady.

~*~*~*~*~

The real estate agent headed for her car, the signed offer and the check for the earnest money in her hands. "As I said, this is just a formality, Ms. Logan. It's been on the market two months, and yours is the only serious bid we've had. I'll call you as soon as the lawyer draws up the final papers. Day after tomorrow, I think. In the meantime, you have the keys, and the power will be turned back on tomorrow. Congratulations again!"

Aidan watched her to her car, then turned to look at her home for the next decade or so. Duncan studied her face for a few minutes, then he asked, "Did you buy this because it was what you needed, or because you fell in love with it?"

"Hmm? Oh, I fell in love with it, most assuredly. But it will make a splendid home, too." She studied the four floors of brick, looked at all the windows, and smiled. Then her gaze went to the battered front door and she sighed, thinking of the next four weeks of work. Thank the Lady her latest vehicle was a truck. "May I buy you dinner, Duncan? I owe you a thank you for all the help with this--and an apology for starting a fight under your roof."

She watched him, seeing the way that mobile mouth tightened, his brows drawing down as his mood changed. From the looks of the mouth and the eyes, his thoughts were somber indeed, but not angry. Or perhaps, not angry with her. Finally, he drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly, blowing tension out in a manner she already knew well.

Duncan studied something far away, remote from her for a long moment. "I'll take the thank you. But I don't know that you owe me an apology. You were right, I saw it in her face. She was trying to do something to me." A faint flush spread across his face. "I didn't know what, or how. But you said bardic voice, so every time she started to speak I told her to be quiet or just put a hand over her mouth."

Aidan reached out, taking his hand. "That was the smartest thing to do, much though I hate to say it. If it's any consolation, had she ensnared you while you were upstairs, I'd have broken it as soon as you came into the room." She looked at him, regret in her eyes and voice. "I am sorry you're hurting."

"It's not your doing. What was she trying to do?"

"Do you know someplace more quiet than Joe's where we can eat, perhaps have a glass of wine, and discuss this? I have a feeling you have some questions for me, and I know I have one for you. And while it seems as if I'm always hungry around you, I'll not apologize for it. Elemental magic is draining."

Duncan's mouth crooked into that wry smile she loved by now. "That was one of the things I wanted to ask you about. It's a bit early for dinner, but not by too much. How about a little Italian dive where we can get a private booth and some red wine? They might even have valpolicella."

"That would be wonderful. Shall we?"

They discussed her new place on the drive: what to do, what order to do it in, when to ship her belongings out. Duncan cheerfully admitted that he would be through teaching after this week's finals, and volunteered before she could draft him.

"I promise, I can handle things like a sander and an air-blaster. Tessa taught me how to use them." He looked wistful for a moment, then went on. "And you're going to need help. That's a big place. How are you with tools?"

Aidan chuckled softly. "If I had the time I could and would do all of it myself. I'm very good at carpentry, renovation, and plumbing; I'm a passable electrician."

"What about duct work? There's no central air and heat."

"It has radiators for heat; I'll install screens on the windows and ceiling fans for cooling. I understand the highs out here never pass ninety?"

"It's rare. Summer highs are generally in the low eighties. I forgot, as long as you've lived without air-conditioning...."

Aidan laughed, quietly. "You're quite right, I don't worry about it. Oh, I suppose if it gets too bad, I'll install window units: one to protect the videos and CDs, one to go near the bed. Maybe one over the computer when I get it set up. Before the winter comes, though, I'll want to put a free-standing stove on the second floor, and position floor vents on the top three floors to spread the heat more evenly. I don't look forward to installing bathrooms on those floors, either. What a nuisance. Ah, well, I've done it before."

Duncan had maligned the restaurant, though not by much. Dive was only a tad unfair. However, the tables were neatly set, the waiter recognized Duncan, and the smells from the kitchen tantalized both of them immediately.

"Red wine, valpolicella if you have it, antipasto to start. Aidan, do you like cannelloni?"

"Oh, Gods, of course I do!" She laughed quietly at the question; right now she'd eat a horse, if someone waved a match under it.

"Good, an order of cannelloni for her, and the cacciatore for me. And some of the bread as soon as you can, please. Neither of us got lunch today." The waiter hurried off, and promptly reappeared with the requested appetizers and wine.

"Aidan, I...." He trailed off, uncertain where to start.

"Duncan, ask. I do have a few secrets which I may not give away. And I give you fair warning, I have one or two questions for you. Will you answer mine, if you can?"

Duncan smiled at her. "If I can, yes. And I don't think I'm asking for secrets." He pushed the bread at her; he'd rarely seen anyone so obviously ravenous. "Magic takes that much out of you?"

"Oh, yes, especially done without preparation. But it was needful." She shrugged, and waved a hand at him. "So, what would you have of me?"

"Did you really study with Methos?"

She turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised. "That was not what I expected to hear you ask first. But yes, I did, exactly as I told her in the dojo. He and I have been friends all my life. We failed to rendezvous in Budapest in the mid-1600s--in the main because I was dodging the Kurgan for quite a while. Nor have I heard from him since. Rather odd, I had expected something from him to Darius, looking for me. However, I simply assumed he had also seen the Kurgan and had vanished for a century or so himself. He does that, Gods know. Until I realized you and Cassandra had seen him, and recently, I was beginning to fear someone had actually taken his head."

Duncan looked at her, then decided to switch the topic to something he could stand a bit more easily. "What was Cassandra doing? Why did you step in and challenge her? You meant to challenge her from the moment you walked in the door."

Aidan appraised him, head tilted in what Duncan was starting to recognize as a characteristic mannerism. She took a sip of the wine before she said at last, "I know the use of some of the singer's nuances, but centuries have rolled past since I last heard anyone else use the spoken compulsions she wielded. She was charming you, hoping that you would kill Methos.

"What Cassandra was doing, effectively, was raping your mind to sway you to her path." Aidan fell silent, as the waiter returned to check on them. After she had sent him off to bring her some water, Duncan returned to the subject.

"Why didn't it work on me? Or did it?" The possibility that he would willingly challenge Methos haunted him.

"She was trying. You seemed to be holding your own; you came out of it quickly enough. I suspect you're simply too stubborn. For a youngster, you certainly have a solid grip on your core self, possibly from taking too many quickenings at your age. Or maybe it's just the Scottish upbringing."

She regarded him with affection and concern. "Duncan, it's all right. I don't think she could turn you against Methos, no matter what she tried."

"What makes you say that?" His eyes were still shadowed with worry under brows drawn down as if he had a headache.

She found herself wanting to rub his shoulders, aching for him in sympathetic disquiet. "It's not that easy. She can coerce, make no mistake, but it's always difficult to work tricks such as that on the older immortals. We have been who we are, what we are, for too long. Taking a quickening and maintaining control of your body requires a certain ego-strength, if you're to avoid being overcome by the other personality. That alone makes us difficult to suborn, to cozen or beguile.

"Oddly, the more quickenings you take, the more likely you are to stay sane, believe it or not. It's a bell-curve in some ways; make it past a certain point and you are almost certain to make it entire, until you may lose your head physically, but not mentally. Unfortunately, that place varies from person to person. There is no predicting it, I fear." Her mind wandered back across centuries, remembering her own day of reckoning. She shook herself back into the present as her water was set down. She thanked the waiter absently, and shooed him away.

"However, you love Methos dearly. She would have had to overcome that to set you against him, and she's just not that good." Aidan met his eyes unflinchingly, and she put a gentle finger against his lips. Unable to resist, she stroked lightly across that lovely mouth before she withdrew her hand. Sure that his initial protest had been silenced, she caught his eyes with hers, refusing to let him look away. "Do you deny that you love him?"

Duncan closed his eyes, unable to escape her any other way. Even there in the dark, though, his memories hunted him, flooding him with images, sounds and sensations.

_Methos sprawled out on his couch, drinking beer and cadging dinner._

_The startled look on Methos' face when Duncan ran a paintbrush down that nose._

_Methos slamming him bodily against the four-by-four, hissing, 'I killed ten thousand.... And it wasn't for vengeance. It wasn't for greed. I did it because I liked it.'_

_Methos offering his head to help Duncan kill Kalas._

_That quiet, deadly voice coming from behind Kristin on the lake shore, the calm menace as he answered, 'A man who was born long before the age of chivalry. Pick it up.'_

_The sympathy that had ripped Duncan apart as Methos left with Alexa, knowing there wasn't enough time for the two of them, as there had not been enough time for Tessa and himself._

_Duncan's shock when he went to meet the Watcher's Senior Methos Researcher, only to find an immortal sitting on the floor saying, 'Mi casa es su casa.'_

_Methos pulling him from the sacred pool and handing back his katana, after the dark quickening._

_Methos fighting Silas a level down and over in Bordeaux, instead of killing Cassandra; the sharp, joyous realization that any treachery had been against the Horsemen._

_Methos sobbing on the grating in the aftermath of the quickening, racked with grief at having killed Silas._

_Duncan's own voice, harsh from screaming during that incredible double quickening, crying out, 'Cassandra, I want him to live!'_

When he opened his eyes, Aidan was still watching him and waiting. "Yes, I love him. God help me. I know what he is and I still love him."

"No, Duncan, you know some of what he was, and you still love him. You're getting to see what he is now, which puts you ahead of most of our kind. Did you love Darius?"

"Yes, but...."

"Yes, but Darius became a holy man and atoned for leading his army? Does that change what he did? Darius led a thousand soldiers, Duncan, with Grayson as his second. He came up out of the Baltic lands and rode down into Italy to take Mother Rome. Then he headed for the Atlantic, rolling over everything in his way. Make no mistake, he'd have done it, too, had an older immortal not stopped him. Grayson resented immensely both the fact that Darius stopped, and that he took the quickening. Did you ever know Grayson?"

"You could put it that way, Aidan. I took his head."

Aidan's eyes widened in shock. "You? I did not know that!" She paused for a moment, letting that jolt settle in, before she continued. "Think about it, then, about what kind of person Darius had to be, to control Grayson for over a hundred years."

Aidan watched as Duncan absorbed that. "Darius changed, Duncan, a bit more radically, a bit more swiftly, than most of us--but that's all. Methos changed, too.

"He really did have a dreadful time training me. I was stubborn and willful, determined to be a great druid, not interested in the Game or sword training. The idea of being an immortal horrified me. To be held away from the Gods, to be denied Tir Na Nog and rebirth... it seemed worse to me than the Christian hells do to you.

"But I wasn't willing to die, either. What was it Dylan Thomas said? 'I will not go quietly into the night.' Can you imagine how much trouble he had with a teen-aged girl who didn't want to learn the sword, but didn't want to thwart the Gods either? The elders always said the Gods had made me a foundling for a reason. I felt the same way about being immortal.

"But I had always been encouraged to question, to think, to probe. All of my people thought I'd be one of the sages and foretellers of my kind. Watching the stars all night as they wheeled in their patterns, trying to decipher them with the help of the stone circles, reading the future in the winds curling over the balefires.... And here was this strange man, more widely educated than any of our elders, telling me to learn a warrior's arts?

"I was not one to do things because 'that's the way it's always been done' and he knew it. He lost his temper occasionally, but was always so careful never to unleash it on a person." Aidan looked rueful. "I was the destruction of more than one shield, though. He'd go pound on something until he could resist the temptation to do it to me instead."

Both of them looked up as the waiter brought the food to the table and refilled their glasses. Aidan stuck to half a glass, unwilling to indulge too much when she had a fight in the morning.

"Aidan? Not that I'm not interested, I am, but what does this have to do with Methos and Cassandra?" He took a bite of his cacciatore, savoring the hot food after the stresses of the day. First the argument with Cassandra, then the argument between the two women, then the emotions Aidan had pulled up just now.... Duncan thought he definitely deserved a good dinner and a few glasses of wine.

"Simply put, Duncan, you need to grasp the flavor of the times, so to speak. Do you understand that I was raised to worship the Lady of the Fields, the Lord of the Hunt? Can you comprehend that, not just know it as an intellectual fact? My people worshiped nature, knowing what Tennyson said, that nature is red in tooth and claw. I grew up learning the herb lore of death as well as life, knowing how to poison wolves and lower wound-fever. The older people would sometimes give themselves to the Gods during a harsh winter, trying to preserve the clan by easing the strain on the food supply and by petitioning the Gods personally after death. Yes, they knew there would be another life, but this one is always so sweet...."

Aidan watched the lamp, remembering old friends long since passed away around fires long gone to ash.

"Methos is even older than I am, Duncan. He grew up in a time when individual human life meant very little, when chivalry literally could not be conceived. The kings were descended of the Gods, and took their right to rule from their divine birthright. When new tribes were stronger, when new kings conquered, it was because their Gods were stronger. For his time, what he did was what others would do if they could."

She watched him, as totally focused on him as she had been on Cassandra in the dojo. "Think about that. And think about the fact that as society has changed, become less violent, more civilized--so has he. You're old enough to know how difficult it is to overcome that initial conditioning. You are as courteous, as chivalrous, as any hero Scott ever described in _Ivanhoe_ or Dumas in his _Three Musketeers_."

Aidan stopped at the sound Duncan had made as he tried to exhale wine. When he had caught his breath, laughing and shaking his head at her offers of help, she finally asked, "What did I say? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Aidan, fine." He was still chuckling softly as he pointed at her food. "Eat, you've convinced me! Both of you.... Methos got angry once and accused me of living by a code of honor that was 'trendy' when I was young. He was talking about chivalry, said a couple of poets came up with the idea on a rainy afternoon, and I decided to adopt it as a way of life."

Duncan finally shook his head, still smiling. "Thank you. I couldn't see how the person I knew could be the same one Cassandra knew. You're saying the same thing Joe tried to tell me, that he isn't. I know the person Cassandra's tormentor became. You're just more stubborn than Joe!"

Aidan watched as the tension eased out of him. They were very good friends, then.

MacLeod went on, "I'll find out when he's coming to town. I owe him an apology, God knows, and this isn't one to do over a phone."

She smiled at him. "I'm impressed; most people won't apologize for anything. They hate admitting they're wrong. And of course I'm more stubborn than Joe--I have more practice!"

The two of them started laughing together. When they drew the waiter's attention with their noise, they started laughing even harder as Aidan tried to explain to the young waiter that yes, her food was fine, no, he didn't need to bring her something else!

After the boy had gone again, and the mirth subsided somewhat, the penny finally dropped for Aidan. "Duncan, are you saying Joe knows Methos?"

He could tell the idea surprised her; thinking about Methos' secretiveness, he couldn't blame her. "Yeah, they like to go listen to new jazz acts together when they're in the same city. I see what you mean, it is kind of a shock, isn't it?"

"Twelve hundred years I've been concealing my first teacher's name, so that never again would anyone try to use me to get to him--and my new employer, the bartender, knows about him." Aidan raised her face to the heavens, knowing they were somewhere beyond the smoke-stained ceiling. "Why, Goddess, what did I do in that last unremembered life, to deserve this?"

Duncan poured her another glass of wine. "Are you worried about it? Here, and plan on eating some tiramisu before we leave."

"No, I'm not worried about it. Hmm, tiramisu? Well, this is my last night of freedom before I go to work on the house.... Yes, that would finish this off nicely, if we can go dancing at Joe's tonight. Duncan, what name is he using these days?"

"Joe Dawson, unless he's hiding something from the IRS. You'd know that better than I would," Duncan baited her, unable to resist the temptation.

"Wretch. Ingrate. Rapscallion. Oh, fewmets, I already agreed to pay for dinner, didn't I? Ah, well, you agreed to answer some questions for me, I seem to recall." She stuck her tongue out at him and speared the last of her cannelloni, then pushed the plate away.

"What are fewmets?" For some reason, Duncan's first association for that word was pink dragons with purple polka-dots!

"Dragon droppings," Aidan replied cheerfully. "T. H. White, _The Sword in the Stone_, don't you young whippersnappers read classics? And I meant Methos, and full well you know it."

"He's using the name Adam Pierson, actually. Do you want me to tell him you're in town when I talk to him?"

"Oh, merciful Gods, no, I want the fun of surprising him! I haven't seen the man in ages, I'm entitled to some mischief." She smiled, incipient chaos and havoc shining forth from her face. Duncan regarded her somewhat uneasily.

"Aidan, remember, Methos doesn't react well to surprises. Is this a good idea?"

"Of course it isn't, but I haven't seen him in three hundred years, and he hasn't written!"

"Did you?" Duncan watched her warily, determined not to get drawn into this. He had enough apologizing to do already.

"No, he always restarted the contacts when we got split off from each other. He's actually a bit less prone to vanish into nowhere than I am. Of course, he has the advantage of being male." She shrugged, her voice perfectly matter-of-fact. "I became much more cautious after the one time I ended up a slave and Methos had to buy me away from them."

Duncan thought about that for a few seconds, and did not like any of the conclusions he came to. Aidan reached over and stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. "It didn't destroy me, Duncan. It even taught me some useful lessons. Mind, it didn't make me stronger, just more paranoid, but that's no bad thing for one of us."

"Was that the immortal who raped you?" He met her eyes levelly, trying to gauge how badly that assault had hurt her.

"No, Duncan, I was enslaved in Rome, during Marcus Aurelius' day. That must have been, oh, 165 or 170. The problem with the immortal took place somewhere in the early 900s in Spain. I had been traveling with Ramirez for a while, but he was away at a battle--retaking Spain from the Moors, I seem to remember. I did tell Ramirez about it; I had to, he was the one who tracked me down and found me. The bastard had chained me to a wall, and then bricked up the room."

She looked thoughtful. "I never have gotten a translation of what Ramirez said; much of it was in an Egyptian language I don't speak. I couldn't ask Methos about it, because he'd want to know why Ramirez said them. Then he'd track the man down and kill him. I want that privilege myself."

"Are you sure he's still alive? What was his name?" Duncan resolved to ask Joe about this immortal the first chance he got.

"No, I'm not sure--but I suspect so. He was an assassin before his first death. And his name was Sinan ibn Salman ibn Muhammad." She reached across the table for his hands, tranquility in her face and her posture. "Duncan, it was long ago. I'm all right."

"Meaning you don't want to discuss it?"

"No, I don't."

For a few minutes they were distracted with getting their dessert and dealing with the check. To Aidan's pleased surprise, Duncan didn't fight her for it. After the waiter was gone again, paid and tipped, leaving them with a table full of coffee and tiramisu, MacLeod asked her, "What are you going to do about Cassandra?"

"I assume you mean, if I win? Although like you, I don't harbor much belief that she'll take my head. She just isn't that good, from what I saw this afternoon."

Duncan sighed, exasperated. "Yes, that's what I mean. And I agree. I haven't sparred with you, but from what I saw this afternoon, you can take her unless you get really careless. Are you going to?"

Her voice sounded unexpectedly light-hearted to him. "No, of course not. But she's not to know."

"Can I talk you.... Wait. What did you say?" Duncan's eyes widened, as he tried to make sure he'd heard that right. "You're not going to get careless, or you're not going to take her head?"

Aidan's grin was irrepressible and infectious. "Hmm, I ought to let you wonder. I'm going to let the little idiot live, Duncan, since you asked." Then her smile altered slightly, giving a malicious cast to that expressive face. "But I'm going to put fear in her heart first. She's going to know I gave her life back to her, MacLeod, have no doubt of that.

"She gave my teacher his head, so I'll return hers as fair repayment. But I intend that Cassandra know the debt to be cleared before I'm done." Aidan studied her coffee intently for a moment, watching the way the cream swirled as she poured it in.

"I do seem to keep asking you for services, but may I ask another?" After his cautious nod, she continued, "Will you please be there, tomorrow? I don't think she'd cheat, but I don't trust her so much that I'll not take precautions."

"Yes, I'll be there." Mac didn't mention that he'd have been there regardless, but from the amused set of Aidan's mouth he suspected she knew it.

As they left the restaurant, he spotted the incongruity in what she'd said. "Aidan, about Sinan?"

"Yes?" She sounded cautious, but then she started swearing softly in Spanish as she tried to find and fasten the seat belt.

"Here, it went under the seat." Duncan reached over and pulled it out, resisting the temptation to run his hand along her thigh as he went. "You said you want to kill Sinan yourself, right?"

"Oh, yes." An almost sensual anticipation laced her voice

"Aren't you being a bit hypocritical in fighting Cassandra then? Both of you want revenge on your rapists." Duncan shrugged and spread his hands. "Sorry, but...."

Aidan looked over at him, one eyebrow raised, looking not in the least offended. "Mac, if I were going after her head for wanting to kill Methos, you'd be right. If she challenged Methos for raping her, I'd stand back out of the way and watch. I'd be building her coffin while I waited, mind.

"I took exception for that Cassandra twists innocent minds with her magic, for that she is too craven to fight Methos herself, and too alarumed of reality to live therein. And therefore shall I make it clear that do I find her again, after tomorrow morn, she forfeits her head." The flat, uninflected tone chilled Duncan with its ruthlessness.

After a few minutes thought, he finally spoke. "That's fair enough. I could wish you wouldn't take it that far, but you've been doing this longer than I have."

The next time they stopped for a red light, Aidan looked directly at him, the demarcation between sunlight and shadow giving her an unearthly aspect to her face. "Duncan, those charms and cadences are a glamourie most cannot resist. I do not know how often she wields them, nor to what end, save what I have compassed today. Given what I do comprehend of her, I cannot let this pass. So few in this day do believe that magic exists that already what defense they might have is gone. Skepticism is no shield 'gainst power, I do assure you. I cannot leave her loose, anymore than I would let a child molester go free.

"I'm sorry, Duncan, for your sake, but I'll not lie to you about it. I will let her go free in the morning, to pay Methos' debt. I'll not actively hunt her out for at least a month. It may be I can affright her in the dawn. But if she goes back to misusing her power and I hear it whispered on the wind, I will be obligated to course her and kill her."

Duncan closed his eyes, ignoring the green light for the moment, grateful there were no cars behind him just now. When he looked back at the road, he replied in a steady voice, "I understand. I even agree. I just can't do it myself."

As he accelerated away from the light, Aidan murmured, "We all have things we can't do ourselves, why else would the Gods give us friends?" Somehow, Duncan didn't think she had meant that for him.

~*~*~*~*~

False dawn spread its light over the concrete and asphalt, illuminating broken glass, old graffiti, and more recent impact stars where someone had shot at cans with a small caliber firearm. It was only 5:20, Cassandra wasn't late yet. Aidan waited quietly, clearly visible in the bottom curve of the exit. Because of the way the ground was built up for the access ramp, no one would see her from the access road or the interstate. Duncan sat on the hillside, wrapped in his trench coat against the dew on the grass. The morning was too beautiful for this, he thought, and knew that he always felt this way watching women fight. There were so few female immortals, and they so rarely opposed each other. Almost always it was one of the males doing it.

Aidan's preparations had not really surprised him, nor the fact that she had been on the curb waiting for him when he came down from his apartment at 5 AM. Duncan studied her from distracted habit, not really expecting to ever have to cross swords with her, but Connor had trained him thoroughly. All that long hair had been carefully braided and pinned, so that not a wisp escaped to give Cassandra a hold. Mac suspected it would cushion her head against impact, as well as lending more dignity to that pale face.

She wore thick denim jeans, cut for movement; a leather vest or shirt; and tightly laced black high-tops which reminded him of Connor. He smiled briefly, then wondered if his clansman had ever seen her fight. Over it all, she had on a deep black trench coat, which furled and ruffled in the early morning breeze as best it could. From the way the fabric moved, Duncan suspected she had at least a sword and dagger in there, maybe more.

They felt Cassandra's arrival simultaneously, and Aidan dropped instinctively into a defensive stance Duncan recognized from Wing Chun. The redhead walked around the curve of asphalt wearing an outfit very similar to Aidan's, yet the differences in dress spoke volumes of the contrasts between the two women. Cassandra wore a denim shirt, black designer jeans, black boots which leant her a good two inches of height, and a tan overcoat over the whole outfit. She had left her hair down, unconfined by braid or band, and wore loop earrings. When she saw MacLeod, she nodded once to him, but continued to watch her challenger.

Aidan waited until Cassandra had walked within twenty feet of her, then asked "Are you ready?" Her stance never changed as she waited, nor did the calm, almost amused mask on her face. She held both hands poised to draw weapons or block them.

"Yes. Are you here to fight, or to pose?" Cassandra drew her blade, letting the overcoat slide off her left shoulder as she did so. She shifted the sword to her left hand, throwing the coat off to her right as she did so. Aidan took a few seconds to appraise the sword, noticing that the blade was standard longsword length, edged on both sides for perhaps half its length, and with a thrusting point. The handguard curved away from the wielder to catch incoming blades; the hilt was long enough for Cassandra to wrap both hands around it comfortably, and her hands were not small. All in all, Aidan decided swiftly, a good weapon, and probably well balanced somewhere near the handguard. Cassandra settled into a defensive position, both hands on the sword, her right shoulder slightly forward.

Without bothering to reply, Aidan pulled her saber, switching it from hand to hand as she shed her own coat. When the trench coat was on the ground, she pulled her main-gauche. She waited there, right side forward, saber in left hand, dagger in right. Without the concealment of the coat, it was obvious that she wore a leather vest and a knife strapped to the underside of each forearm. Out of her usual t-shirt or blouse, Aidan's arms and shoulders were more muscular than Duncan had expected, and she wore no jewelry at all: no ring, watch or armband.

Duncan's eyes widened slightly as he took in Aidan's stance. He had thought she was right-handed; how many layers of deceit were in this match?

Cassandra lunged, slashing straight down at Aidan's shoulder, but she had misgauged her opponent's strength. Metal whined as Aidan caught the blow between saber and dagger, then shifted sharply forward. Her elbow caught Cassandra in the shoulder of her sword arm. Forced off balance, Cassandra found herself falling to the cement, trying to keep her blade upright between the two of them.

Aidan dropped back smoothly, hips pivoting in a pattern which Duncan knew too well from his martial arts studies. "Get up, old woman, try again."

This time the redhead was more cautious, staying balanced and trying several careful feints and light, one-handed slashes. Aidan ignored the attempt to sound out her defenses, deflecting the strikes with a bare minimum of force. After a frustrating minute, Cassandra stepped up both the tempo and the pressure of her attacks. The younger woman continued to block each attempt, pivoting only as much as necessary, never moving more than a foot from her original location. Cassandra began stalking around her opponent, trying to force her into facing the rising sun.

Just as Duncan began to think she would never attack, Aidan took the initiative. She stepped abruptly to Cassandra's left, lashing out with her saber in a deceptively strong backhanded stroke. As her left arm forced the longsword out and away from the other woman's torso, she stepped in and slashed across with the dagger. Blood poured across both of them from a thin bright line just under Cassandra's collarbone. The main-gauche flicked back up again, leaving a point of blood just under the jaw.

Cassandra cried out in pain but threw herself back and away, rolling as she hit the concrete, coming up a few yards down the road. The wounds began healing immediately; the dagger had not struck deeply. Already, though, Cassandra could feel her heart pounding, and her hands were shaking. That had come too close to her throat. Aidan's malicious smile made it clear that the strike had been perfectly on target.

Then the brunette slapped the longsword away again, and threw a side-kick against the older immortal's knee. This time Cassandra reacted more quickly, catching herself on her good leg and bringing her sword around in a low slash which nearly landed. As it was, Aidan was thrown off her center of balance when she dodged back. She had to drop and roll away, acquiring several small cuts on her bare arms where there had been glass on the concrete. But as the younger woman came up, she settled back into her balance again, laughing softly.

"I had wondered how you survived three millennia. Nice not to be completely disappointed."

Cassandra dropped into a cat stance, all her weight on the back leg, trying to give the knee time to heal; Aidan had other plans. She closed the distance between them in three long strides, parrying the longsword once, twice, and then trapping it on the third blow. She thrust hard with her entire body, torquing Cassandra off balance. As their blades disengaged, Aidan swept the other woman's leg out from under her.

Cassandra's vision blurred as her head hit the concrete; sparks of light shot across her vision as pain exploded up her arm, and she closed her eyes reflexively as she lost her grip on her longsword. Aidan had dropped to her knees on Cassandra's sword arm, driving the weapon to the ground and breaking both bones in the forearm. Her dagger drew sparks across the concrete as it stabbed and then raked entirely too close to Cassandra's throat. Then the saber settled just under Cassandra's chin, drawing blood with every rasping breath the loser drew.

Cassandra tilted her head back, trying to gain a bit more space to breath. She felt no resignation, only indignation that the fight had not gone as she wished it. But seconds passed and the saber neither pressed in nor withdrew. Fear began to set in, as Aidan made no sound. Even senses heightened by the proximity of another immortal could barely make out the younger woman's breathing. When Cassandra finally opened her eyes, cold grey eyes were studying her. Those orbs revealed nothing of their possessor's plans or intentions. They simply watched--unflinching, barely blinking, resolute and implacable as the Lords of Judgment.

The quiet and the dread grated on Cassandra's nerves, until she snarled, "Do it, damn you!"

Aidan held the sword where it was, and remained silent. Pain stitched its way down Cassandra's arm, and muscles began to cramp where Aidan's weight was cutting off circulation. Bone tried to heal, but couldn't move properly into place and the agony from that made the muscle cramps almost irrelevant. The swelling of her knee against the tight denim pants never stood a chance of being noticed in such company.

"What are you waiting for?" Cassandra gasped, pain beginning to darken the edges of her vision.

"Do you yield?" The question came in the formal Latin of Cicero, not the vulgar Latin which had endured so much longer. It took a long moment before Cassandra could translate the words.

"What?!" Cassandra quickly controlled her convulsive reaction to that question, as the saber drew a line of blood across her throat.

"Concede. Your head is mine if I choose to take it." Now Cassandra believed this young-appearing woman was Methos' apprentice. She had seen just that impassive expression on his face more than once, even the tilt of the head was the same.

"What do you want? The satisfaction of hearing me say it? Never!" But for all her bravado, Cassandra didn't try to push her throat against the blade. The air tasted too sweet.

Then Aidan rocked back on her heels, taking the pressure off Cassandra's arm. The main-gauche took the saber's place on the auburn-haired woman's throat, and the clatter of metal on concrete implied that Cassandra's sword had been flipped away.

Still Aidan said nothing, only shifted slightly once again. She settled one knee on the bottom of Cassandra's sternum, applying just enough pressure to make breathing difficult. The older woman's breath hissed out as she felt the saber return, just above the main-gauche. Her throat lay within that crossed steel, and there was nothing she could do from that position to escape. Aidan might be an inch or so shorter, but she carried more muscle; the two probably came within a pound or so of the same weight. Cassandra had no illusions that she could throw Aidan off without losing her throat at least, and more likely her head.

Bones settled into place and began to heal as terror seeped into Cassandra's heart, oozing past the broken remnants of bravado. Nothing she could do would save her head, except maybe....

"I yield." The voice undoubtedly would have embittered freshly sugared berries.

Aidan raised an expressive eyebrow, but didn't debate the tone. "Good. Will English suit you, or shall it be Latin?"

"English."

Pain roughened Cassandra's voice, and resentment, but the undertones were those of fear and uncertainty. Aidan controlled her satisfaction, leashing face and eyes to show nothing but unyielding will.

"Good. Listen closely, I'll not say this twice." Both blades pressed firmly against Cassandra's throat; blood began to flow down onto her collar. "Do I have your complete attention?" Aidan watched the other woman's eyes and nodded slowly at the dread she saw. Deliberately, she raised her voice to ensure that MacLeod would hear every word.

"Very good. Don't speak, I wouldn't advise it right now. You gave Methos his head once--because Duncan requested it. I'm giving you yours this morning, for the same reason.

"Neither man owes you anything now. Is that clear? I'm going to move my blades back half an inch. Nod once to agree that they are both clear of any debt to you." Her tone left no room for disagreement, and Cassandra nodded very cautiously, all too aware that one shift in Aidan's weight would inflict a great deal of pain and almost certainly drive her onto the crossed blades through the body's instinctive reaction to having the wind knocked out.

The edges settled back onto her throat, opening two new wounds. Cassandra felt only the trickle of blood and a cold sting as the air hit the cuts; the blades were too sharp for the pain to be immediate. "Now we get to the rest of it. I'm going to stand up in a minute. You may retrieve your sword after I leave. But believe me on this, and listen very carefully, for your life depends on it.

"You can yet lose your head. Attack me with sword, word or magic, use your magic to twist someone else's will, or send headhunters after Methos, and you forfeit your head to my blades as soon as I do course you. Do you understand these three restrictions?"

The steel moved back once again, and Cassandra swallowed her immediate impulse to quarrel with the terms. She could feel blood congealing on her throat, sticking her shirt to her shoulders. Danger hovered around her, brushing her with its wings, bringing goose bumps to her skin. She controlled a shudder, realizing it would throw her onto Aidan's weapons. "I understand."

"Say them back to me. I will have no mercy on this, and I must be sure you understand what charges I lay upon you before I will release you to your own free will." Aidan studied every change, every flicker of emotion that ran across that face, reading more than Cassandra would have liked.

"If I send other immortals against Methos, you'll come for my head. If I coerce someone with magic, you'll come for my head. If I attack you again, with action, spell, or word, you'll come for my head." The shudders were coming more steadily now, and Aidan pulled the edges back another half inch, not wanting to kill by accident. Not after this much care and control had already been used.

"Good. You do understand. And Cassandra? One last point."

"Yes?" The older woman studied her conqueror resentfully.

"There is no time limit to these _geasae_, no statue of limitations if they are broken. I am not a lawyer. This is not a court of law. If you violate the spirit of these agreements, I shall consider them broken even though you do fulfill the letter. Do not mistake me, and do not cross me." Aidan held her eyes until she was sure the warning had been heeded. Deliberately, she wiped her blades on the other woman's shirt and sheathed the main-gauche on her hip.

Cassandra shuddered again as her conqueror reached down toward her throat. Then she saw what Aidan had picked up. It was a thick lock of auburn hair, perhaps four inches long, stippled with drying blood. The younger woman closed her right hand tightly around her trophy, shifted easily to her feet and moved away. No sense in adding temptation to injury by staying within range of a kick.

"By the way?"

Cassandra didn't stand up, just rolled her head to the side to look at Aidan, silent with shock, and pain, and apprehension.

The younger woman walked over to her overcoat and carefully placed the lock of hair into a pocket. As she shifted the saber over to the now-free hand, she said, "I'm actually right-handed. Think about that, too."

Aidan pulled on her coat, and sheathed her sword. She turned to the hillside, focusing her attention on the next concern: Duncan's reaction to the pain and manipulation she had just employed toward her goal. Methos had been a friend and ally for millennia; defending him had claimed priority, but she valued the friendship of both MacLeods. All she could think to do was offer her trust, and hope that would be enough.

"Duncan, thank you for standing witness. I am in your debt." She bowed to him, hands open and held away from her side. This time she lowered her gaze, instead of watching his face. Aidan straightened again and the Scot drew a deep breath, unaware that he'd been trying to hold his breath for the last few minutes.

"You're welcome. But you just redeemed one of my obligations. I think we're even."

"As you will." More quietly she asked, "Will I see you at Joe's tonight?"

Equally quietly he answered her unspoken question, the one he'd have been asking in her place. "Yes, Aidan, we're still friends. Go get cleaned up for work. I'm going to make sure she's all right."

Aidan drew a slow, deep breath and let her shoulders relax down as that last dilemma evaporated. Without another word, she headed to her truck and left. The clock was just rolling over to 5:37 AM.

~*~*~*~*~

Joe woke abruptly, disoriented and trying to figure out what had roused him. He'd only been asleep for--he rolled over, looked at the clock and groaned at seeing 6:42 blink at him in digital red--three-plus hours, what the hell? Maybe Aidan had gone out? She frequently went running in the early hours, but she was always careful not to disturb him. No, someone was definitely moving in his den. He felt like a fool going into his own living room in a bathrobe with his cane and gun, but better a live fool....

Then he saw Aidan and the penny dropped. A duffel bag that she had kept in her truck sat on the floor just inside the den, and she had two bags of food on the kitchen counter. As he came in through the entryway, Joe appraised her clothes and came to an immediate conclusion: she had fought a Challenge this morning or would be fighting one very soon. Since he couldn't believe any immortal would grocery shop just before a duel, and they usually favored dawn or dusk to minimize the visibility of the quickenings...

"What have you--"

"I didn't mean to--"

Both of them spoke at once after that slight hesitation, then they looked at each other and started to chuckle. Joe headed for the coffee pot. No way was he going back to sleep for a while now....

~ ~ ~

Aidan gave Joe a rueful smile. "Why did you ask me if I was in trouble this morning?"

Joe looked scornfully at her. "I'm tired, and I'm gettin' old, but I'm not stupid, Aidan. You show up in my kitchen, at quarter of seven in the morning, too tired or upset to catfoot around the house like normal, wearin' clothes you can fight in, and I shouldn't wonder if you're in trouble? C'mon, lady, you're not usually slow."

"No, indeed. These were the only clean clothes I had available this morning. I had intended to go change before you woke up, but...." Aidan waved a hand toward his gun, and laughed. "Best laid plans and all that."

"Clean clothes? Did you have a fight this morning?" He probed carefully, trying to sound like a curious friend. He could always fall back on his bartender background and claim that he had long habits of asking personal questions.

"Not exactly. It was more of an object lesson." She sighed and stretched her arms up over her head, pulling until Joe could hear vertebrae popping. "But if it doesn't sink in, I'll have to kill her."

"You don't strike me as the type to play judge, jury, and executioner. What's this woman done?" Joe quickly ran through female immortals in his mind; hell, the only immortals in town that he knew of were Aidan, Duncan, and... Cassandra? "You didn't kill her then?"

"No, I didn't." Aidan fell silent.

~ ~ ~

"Who are you protecting, Mac or Methos?" Joe's eyes met hers, calm and rock-steady, and she realized, in amazement, that the idea of lying to him or evading the question terrified her at this moment.

"Both of them. I don't know who would win, but the loser would be better off. The survivor would hate himself and go find some way to lose his head."

"I know you and Mac have become friends, but why are you protecting Methos like this?" Joe watched Aidan's face, those clear-seeing eyes closed for the moment, the skin paler than ever, making her hair look almost black.

She swallowed a couple times from what he'd swear was sheer nerves. When she looked back up, though, her decision was made. "I protect Methos because he protected me. He was my first teacher, and for decades after that, my traveling companion. He is the best friend I have."

~*~*~ Epilogue ~*~*~

Joe headed for his study. Working quickly, he typed up a fax cover letter; his handwriting wasn't always the best and this needed to be clear. While it was printing out, he dug around in some of his most recent pictures of Mac. Now, where was that one from last weekend? Grinning with satisfaction, he looked down at the photo and nodded cheerfully. This should draw exactly the reaction he wanted.

The top page was simple enough. The message read, "Adam, new resident of Seacouver. Arrived last week from the East Coast. Don't suppose she's an old acquaintance of yours? Call you later." That much had been typed, and Joe's usual scrawl-masquerading-as-a-signature wandered across much of the page under the large text.

The second page was a picture good enough that it should have the impact Joe wanted even over a fax. MacLeod stood outside his gymnasium, wearing a t-shirt and jeans, hair pulled back into a ponytail as usual. He was studying a newspaper spread open across the hood of the T-bird, still smiling from something his companion had said. The convertible top of the car was down, apparently it was a nice day.

Aidan stood next to him, also wearing jeans and t-shirt, pointing to something in the paper. She had her hair braided back from her face; it obscured part of the sun and moon design on the shirt, but nothing hid that oak leaf pendant of hers. As usual, she hadn't bothered with a watch. The camera had caught her in the middle of a word, making some kind of wry comment from the raise of that eyebrow and Duncan's grin. The two of them stood close together to read the page, each obviously comfortable with the other's company.

Joe's oath as a Watcher very clearly said he shouldn't interfere with his immortal subject. Once again, he had not so much decided to ignore that rule as lock it away in a safe deposit box--and throw the key out the window. This fight between Methos and Duncan was about to end, one way or another. He had great faith that Aidan wouldn't allow it go on, all Joe had to do was put all three of them in one place and lock the doors.... Joe looked at his watch. 7:40 AM in Seacouver, three more hours to get New York time, then six for Paris, less an hour back for daylight savings time--3:40 PM, Adam should still be in the bookstore, no problem. Dawson picked up his phone and hit the speed dial.  


_finis_

Comments, Commentary, and Miscellanea:

  


For the curious: all songs, alcohols, and books listed by name or title do in fact exist. I can't swear to the drinks (not being all that much for alcohol myself) but the music and books I recommend. The Tom Waits song 'Train Song' was being sung by Holly Cole on the album _Temptations_. Robert Plant is singing "Gallowspole", from Plant &amp; Page _No Quarter_. The quote about the Fates is by that famous author Anonymous, but I first read it in Joseph Campbell's _Power of Myth._ The anecdote about Melos &amp; the Peloponnesian War comes from Mary Renault's _Last of the Wine_.

All fight techniques listed do work as described, for which I thank my husband. He had no idea he had gotten two black belts and a rainbow of other belts for this! The swords do exist as described, and I highly recommend leaving alone anyone who can use sword and dagger simultaneously. By the way, depending on what style of martial art is taught, yes, quite a few dojos do contain shomen. Yes, that does mean they are Holy Ground! (Immortals, be thou warned....) All dates/people/events which are historical take their dates &amp; spellings from _Timetables of History_ by Bernard Grun.

If you recognize Sinan's name, give yourself a brownie point and rest assured he'll show up another time.

Imbolc, Aidan's birthday, is also known as Brignasa, Brigid's Day, or February 1. In Greek mythology, Chaos is the mother of Night. 'Acushla' is an Irish Gaelic endearment. And Wing Chun is a kung fu fighting style designed by a woman for female fighters.

To those who noticed: yes, Aidan does seem to do everything in threes, triples or triads, whatever you may want to call them. What do you expect from an unrepentant Celt? She's entitled to be a bit set in her ways. (Besides which, that's how she insisted on doing them!)

A _geas_, plural _geasae_, is a vow or constraint. Not something to take lightly, and frequently with implications of retributions from the Gods if they're broken.

Lastly, magic. If you don't believe it exists, in one form or another, why are you reading this anyway? There are several different opinions on whether there were Druids, what they could actually do, and whether there are any left. The opinions expressed in the course of this story belong to the character involved and do not necessarily mirror my own...but I've got the peach brandy ready for my next visit from the Damn Druid and his cohorts! Good company, all!


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